“I hope nothin’, Ma,” said Mr. Beebe, not looking at the plate.
“You always have such luck with your doughnuts, Mis Beebe,” said Mrs. Brown longingly.
“Well, what is it, anyway?” demanded Mrs. Beebe, setting down the plate on the counter that ran on one side of the little shop, and coming up to the shoe-bench. “What was you sayin’, Pa, about th’ Pepperses?”
“Polly’s got the measles now.”
“Good land o’ Goshen!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe. Then she sat down on the other end of the bench and folded her plump hands.
“P’raps ’tain’t true,” he said, with trembling hands pulling on the gaiter.
“That’s too tight,” declared Mrs. Brown, wrenching her mind from the doughnuts and twisting her foot from one side to the other.
“’Twon’t be when th’ rubber ’lastic has got stretched,” said Mr. Beebe.
“Yes, an’ then the ’lastic will be all wore out, an’ bulge,” said Mrs. Brown discontentedly. “Hain’t you got another pair, Mr. Beebe?”
“Not your size,” said the little shoemaker.