And that, in the end, was the answer I sent to Carver with his five dollars. I spent an hour in my room trying to compose and write a sarcastic reply to his note, but I finally gave it up. Then I put the money in an envelope, addressed the latter, and sent it to the big house by Lute. Lute was delighted with the errand.
“You'll explain to Dorindy, will you?” he asked. “She cal'lates I'm goin' to clean the henhouse. But I can do that some other time.”
“You can—yes.”
“Do you know—” Lute leaned against the clothes post and prepared to philosophize. “Do you know,” he observed, “that I don't take no stock in cleanin' henhouses and such?”
“Don't you? I'm surprised.”
“You're surprised 'cause you ain't thought it out. That's my way; I always think things out. Most folks are selfish. They want to do what they want to do, and they want others to want the same thing. If the others don't want it, then they like to make 'em have it; anyhow. Dorindy is crazy on cleanin'. She wouldn't live in a dirty house no more'n she'd live in a lobster pot. It's the way she's made. But a hen ain't made that way. A hen LIKES dirt; she scratches in it and digs holes in it to waller in, and heaves it over herself all day long. If you left it to the hens would THEY clean their house? I guess not! So, I say what's the use of cruelizin' 'em by makin' 'em live clean when they don't want to? I—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Lute, you're wasting your breath. It is Dorinda you should explain all this to, not to me. And you're wasting my time. I want you to take that envelope to Mr. Carver; and I want you to go now.”
“Well, I'm goin', ain't I? I was only just sayin'—”
“Say it when you come back. And if Mr. Carver asks you why I sent that envelope to him be sure and give him the message I gave you. Do you remember it?”
“Sartin. That what you done wan't wuth so much.”