“Need 'em? Course I need 'em. It's colder than Christmas.”
“No, it isn't. It's almost as warm as September. Put on two suits of your others, if you're so cold. And come down to breakfast as soon as you can. We've all had ours.”
When Mr. Hammond did come down to breakfast his manner was that of a martyr. The breakfast itself, baked beans and fishballs, did not appeal to him, and he ate little. He grumbled as he drank his coffee.
“Healthy note, this is!” he muttered. “Got to set around and freeze to death just 'cause that lazy critter ain't finished her job. I pay her for it, don't I?”
Thankful sniffed. “I suppose you do,” she said, adding under her breath, “though how much you pay is another thing.”
“Is this all the breakfast you've got?” queried Caleb.
“Why, yes; it's what we always have Sunday mornin's. Isn't it what you expected?”
“Oh, I expected it, all right. Take it away; I don't want no more. Consarn it! I wish sometimes I had a home of my own.”
“Well, why don't you have one? I should think you would. You can afford it.”
Mr. Hammond did not reply. He folded his napkin, seized his hat and coat and went out. When he crossed the threshold he shivered, as a matter of principle.