“Here he is,” he exclaimed, as I joined the pair at the table. “Ros, how did you ever come to do it?”
His wife squelched him, as usual. “If Roscoe's got anything to tell,” she observed, with dignity, “he'll tell it without your help or anybody else's. If he ain't, he won't. This pie's colder than it ought to be, but that isn't my fault.”
As I ate I told them of my sudden determination to become a laboring man. I gave the reasons that I had given Mother.
“Um-hm,” said Dorinda.
“But I can't understand,” pleaded Lute. “You don't need to work, and I've sort of took a pride in your not doin' it. If I was well-off, same as you be, I bet George Taylor'd have to whistle afore I wore out MY brains in his old bank.”
“He wouldn't have time to whistle more'n once,” was Dorinda's comment.
“Now, Dorinda, what kind of talk is that? Wouldn't have time to whistle? You do say more things without any sense to 'em! Just talk to hear yourself, I cal'late. What are you grinnin' at, Roscoe?”
“I can't imagine, Lute. This clam pie is a triumph. May I have another helping, Dorinda?”
Dorinda did not answer, but the second helping was a liberal one. She was so quiet and the glances she gave me from time to time were so odd that I began to feel uneasy. I was fairly sure that she approved of my new venture, but why did she look at me like that?
“Well,” said I, looking at my watch and rising, “what do you think of it? Am I doing right?”