He set the minister’s shoe on his lap and regarded it mournfully.
“I guess I must be goin’,” Mrs. Goodsell made as if her mind were on “Four Corners.”
“No, no,” cried the little shoemaker, tearing off his gaze from the parson’s footgear, “I must tell you about Davie, for you ain’t a-goin’ away until you understand about th’ boy. You see, th’ littlest of th’ Pepper childern is a girl, an’ she ain’t much more’n a baby. You ought to see her!” He pushed up his spectacles and beamed at her.
“Never mind,” interrupted Mrs. Goodsell, “I know about babies. Had plenty o’ my own. Go on, Mr. Beebe.”
“Well,” the little shoemaker swallowed his disappointment at being held up in his description of Phronsie, “everybody in the little brown house looks out for everybody else. That’s th’ way they do; an’ although Mis’ Pepper is a hard-workin’ woman, it just beats all how pleasant they keep. You never’d know to look at ’em how they scrimp an’ pinch.”
The big woman unfolded her hands from the shawl-ends, and slowly regarded them. But she said nothing, and Mr. Beebe went on.
“Yes, they just hang together, an’ look out for each other.”
“I warrant so,” exclaimed Mrs. Goodsell with a sniff, “an’ do nothin’ for nobody else.”
“There’s where you’re wrong.” Little old Mr. Beebe fairly snapped it out. “Ef there’s a fam’ly in Badgertown that does more for other folks, I hain’t, so far, heerd th’ name.”
“I thought you said they was obleeged to scrimp,” said Mrs. Goodsell.