“I don't forget, no more'n you do. I ain't so old that I can't remember that fur back, I hope. But it don't make me feel like cryin'.”
“Well, all right. We won't argue about it. Let's be pleasant as we can, for once.”
Now that is where Lute should have taken the hint and remained silent. At least he should have changed the subject. But he was hot and uncomfortable and, I suspect, his Sunday shoes were tight. He persisted.
“Huh!” he sniffed; “I don't see's you've given me no sensible reason for cryin'. If I recollect right you didn't cry at your own weddin'.”
His wife turned on him. She looked him over from head to foot.
“Didn't I?” she said, tartly. “Well, maybe not. But if I'd realized what was happenin' to me, I should.”
“Lute,” said I, as I parted from them at the corner, “I am going to the bank for a little while. Then I think I shall take a short run down the bay in the Comfort. Did you fill her tank with gasolene as I asked you to?”
Lute stopped short. “There!” he exclaimed, “I knew there was somethin' I forgot. I'll do it soon's ever I get home.”
“When you get home,” observed Dorinda, firmly, “you'll wash that henhouse window.”
“Now, Dorinda, if that ain't just like you! Don't you hear Roscoe askin' me about that gas? I've had that gas in my head ever since yesterday.”