“Why, when he heard that organ man strike up so suddint.”
Mrs. Goodsell turned and stared at the small-paned window, in a puzzled way.
“I don’t see nothin’ to that,” she said.
“Well, but there was a monkey.”
“S’posin’ there was—there warn’t nothin’ to that, neither.”
“Well, it might ’a’ ben like th’ other monkey—mebbe ’twas th’ same one!” the little shoemaker slapped his fat thigh, “I wouldn’t wonder; an’ David guessed it.”
“Ef you could stop talkin’ about your monkeys, an’ begin again, mebbe I c’d make head or tail o’ what you’re tryin’ to tell me, Mr. Beebe,” cried the big woman in irritation.
Little Mr. Beebe kept slapping his thigh, and declaring, “I do b’lieve Davie guessed it,” then he suddenly waddled over to the corner, got out a box of dilapidated shoes, picked out a pair, and sat down to work, “Yes, I verily b’lieve he guessed it.”
Mrs. Goodsell heaved a long sigh. It was no use to ask him to begin, for she knew he wouldn’t do it till he was ready—so she folded her large hands over the shawl-ends.
“You see,” said little Mr. Beebe, holding up a man’s shoe to thumb it critically, “it’s just this way, about David—O dear me! it beats all how th’ parson does wear out his shoes. I’m afraid that’s too far gone to mend.”