Mr. S. I ought to finish washing the dishes, but perhaps I’d better see about dinner, first. Let me see. We were to have rice pudding. I haven’t time to make an elaborate pudding. I think I’ll just boil some rice. That is always good.
(He goes toward the table, but steps on his apron and falls. He reaches forward to take hold of the table, but, instead, grasps the paper of rice, and both go on to the floor, the rice scattering in all directions. He gets up, rubbing his bruised arm, and looks ruefully at the scene before him; just then Willie comes in crying.)
W. There aint any raisins there, ur-r-r! Papa, what was I crying for, ur-r-r!
Mr. S. (coaxing him). Don’t cry, Willie, but come and help papa pick up this rice, and you shall have an orange when I go to the store.
W. I want it now.
Mr. S. I haven’t got one now; but here’s an apple, and I’ll give you an orange this afternoon. (Willie takes the apple. They gather up some of the rice, leaving the greater part of it on the floor.) I wonder how much of this I ought to boil. There are only two of us. I think a quart will be enough. (Measures it.) I don’t know but it ought to be picked over. (Looks at watch.) No, I shan’t have time. Of course it’s clean enough; the floor is swept every day. (Goes out, R., with rice; returns.) The next thing is biscuit. That’s an easy matter. I have only to mix flour and water together, and put it into the oven. (Pours flour into a pan, and adds water.) I believe it is customary to knead it well with the hands. (Puts his hands in, and stirs ingredients together. At that moment a ring is heard at the door.) I declare if that isn’t the door-bell. But I shan’t answer it,—not if they ring a dozen times.
W. (who has peeped out of the window, L.) Papa, it’s the Ashtons! (An aristocratic family who have never before called on the Smiths.)
Mr. S. Is it? (Thinks for a moment; the bell rings again.) Willie, can’t you go to the door, and show the ladies into the parlor? Then come out here, and I will go in and see them. Stop a moment, your face isn’t clean. (The bell rings again.) No matter; come here and wipe it on my apron. Now go, like a good boy.
(Willie goes to answer the bell, but, being a little confused, shows the visitors into the dining-room, L. Mrs. and Miss Ashton look around the room and exchange significant glances.)
Mr. S. (discomposed, takes his hands out of the dough, and wipes them on his apron). Willie, why did you bring the ladies into this room? I beg your pardon, ladies; won’t you go into the parlor? I will be in directly.