“Do? By time, I'd do anything! Anything, by thunder-mighty!”
“You would? You mean it?”
“You bet I mean it!”
“Would you promise to stay right here and work for Mrs. Thankful as long as she wanted you to?”
“Course I would. I ain't anxious to leave. It's Hannah that's got that notion. Fust she was dead sot on my workin' here and now she's just as sot on my leavin'.”
“Do you know why she's so—what do you call it?—sot?”
Kenelm fidgeted and looked foolish. “Well,” he admitted, “I—I wouldn't wonder if 'twas account of you, Imogene. Hannah knows I—I like you fust rate, that we're good friends, I mean. She's—well, consarn it all!—she's jealous, that's what's the matter. She's awful silly that way. I can't so much as look at a woman, but she acts like a plumb idiot. Take that Abbie Larkin, for instance. One time she—ho, ho! I did kind of get ahead of her then, though.”
Imogene nodded. “Yes,” she said; “I heard about that. Well, maybe you can get ahead of her again. You wait a minute.”
She went into the living-room. When she came back she had an ink-bottle, a pen and a sheet of note-paper in her hands.
“What's them things for?” demanded Mr. Kenelm.