“Humph! Say, they make me sick, most of 'em. They haven't any more business sense than a hen, the heft of 'em ain't. Go into a deal with their eyes open and then, when it don't turn out to suit 'em, lay down and squeal. Yes, sir, squeal.”
“Ah—I see. Yes, yes, of course. Squeal—yes. The—the hens, you mean.”
“HENS? No, women. They make me sick, I tell you.... And now a lot of dum fools are goin' to give 'em the right to vote! Gosh!”
He strode off along the road to the village. Galusha wonderingly gazed after him, shook his head, and then moved slowly up the path to the house. Primmie opened the door for him. Her eyes were snapping.
“Hello, Mr. Bangs!” she said. “I 'most wisht he'd drop down dead and then freeze to death in a snowbank, that's what I wish.”
Galusha blinked.
“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Of whom are you speaking?”
“That everlastin' Raish Pulcifer. I never did like him, and now if he's comin' around here makin' her cry.”
“Eh? Making her cry?”
“Sshh! She'll hear you. Makin' Miss Martha cry. She's up in her room cryin' now, I'll bet you on it. And he's responsible.... Yes'm, I'm comin'. Don't say nothin' to her that I told you, will you, Mr. Bangs?”