"Oh, yes!" she hollers—every time she spoke she hollered—"Oh, yes! Cap'n Zebulon Snow, of course. I'm Mrs. Hammond. Here's your breakfast."
"Mine!" says I, lookin' at the heap of rations. "You mean mine and Cousin Lemuel's."
"Oh, no, I don't," says she, still smilin', and puttin' the tray down on the table, in the way she did everything, with a bang; "I mean yours, Cap'n Snow. Lemuel's is all ready, though, and I'll fetch it right up. I know what men's appetites are; I've had experience."
Afore I could think of an answer to this she swept out of the door like a toy typhoon, the breeze from her skirts settin' papers and light stuff flyin', and was stompin' down the stairs, singin' "Sweet By and By" at the top of her lungs. I looked at the tray and scratched my head. My appetite ain't a hummin'-bird's, by a considerable sight, but that breakfast would have lasted me all day. As for Lemuel, about all he did with food was find fault with it. And just then in he comes.
"What's that?" says he, pointin' to the tray.
"That?" says I. "That's my breakfast. Yours is just like it and it'll be right up."
He fidgeted with his specs and bent over to look. His nose was anything but a pug, but I give you my word you could almost see it turn up.
"Fried potatoes!" he says; "and fried fish! and fried eggs! and griddle-cakes! Why—why it's all fried! Horrible!"
"Ain't there enough?" I asks, sarcastic. "If not, I presume likely there's more in the kitchen."
"Enough!" he fairly screamed it. "I never take anything but a slice of very dry toast and a cup of tea in the mornin'. It's a principle of mine. And I never eat anything fried! I—I—"