"Oh, I'll give 'em somethin' to dream on, you can bet yer sweet life! Soap fer Fresno's finger, clothes-pin fer Show Low's nose, bottle o' anty-fat fer Slim. It's a swop, Miss Polly!"
"Well, out with yer great secret o' bread-makin'."
"Well, Miss Polly, I take flour, an' water, an' sourin's, an' a pinch o' salt—"
"Flour an' water, an' sourin's, an' a pinch o' salt," repeated Polly, totting the list off on her fingers. "Why, so do I, an' so does every one. It must lie in the workin'. How long do you work the dough, Parenthesis?"
"It must lie in the workin'," repeated Parenthesis solemnly. "Why, I work it, an' work it—" he continued, with exasperating slowness.
"How long do you work it?" asked Polly impatiently.
"Till my han's look purty clean like!" said Parenthesis, holding up his floury paws.
"Then you've got a day's work still before you!" snapped Polly, huffed at seeing herself the victim of a chaffing that she herself had begun. "I won't bother you any longer. So long!"
Parenthesis, however, desired to continue the conversation. "When is this yere hitch between you and Bud comin' off?" he asked.
Polly drew herself up proudly, and, speaking assumed haughtiness, replied: "We're figurin' on sendin' out the cards next month."