A thin woman, with her head tied up in a colored cotton handkerchief, was in the room, vigorously wielding a broom. She was singing in a high cracked voice. The opening of the door let in a gust of cold wind which struck the singer in the back of the neck, and caused her to turn around hastily.
“Hey?” she exclaimed. “Land sakes! you scare a body to death! Shut that door quick! I ain't hankering for influenzy. Who are you? What do you want? Why didn't you knock? Where's my specs?”
She took a pair of spectacles from the mantel shelf, rubbed them with her apron, and set them on the bridge of her thin nose. Then she inspected the schoolmistress from head to foot.
“I beg pardon for coming in,” shouted Phoebe. “I knocked, but you didn't hear. You are Mrs. Beasley, aren't you?”
“I don't want none,” replied Debby, with emphasis. “So there's no use your wastin' your breath.”
“Don't want—” repeated the astonished teacher. “Don't want what?”
“Hey? I say I don't want none.”
“Don't want WHAT?”
“Whatever 'tis you're peddlin'. Books or soap or tea, or whatever 'tis. I don't want nothin'.”
After some strenuous minutes, the visitor managed to make it clear to Mrs. Beasley's mind that she was not a peddler. She tried to add a word of further explanation, but it was effort wasted.