“What’s that got to do with it?” The little shoemaker brought this out with such a roar that old Mrs. Beebe threw open the door into the shop. She was just mixing bread, and her sleeves were rolled up, and little flour dabs had flown up as far as her cap.
“Mercy me, Pa. I thought you was sick!” she exclaimed. “Oh, how do you do, Mis’ Goodsell.”
“I ain’t sick, Ma,” replied the little shoemaker, turning his round red face to her, “but I shall be unless you come in an’ ’xplain things about th’ Peppers.”
“What about th’ Peppers? There hain’t nothin’ happened to ’em!” cried Mrs. Beebe in alarm, and trotting in.
“My land, no!” declared the little shoemaker. “I wouldn’t be a-settin’ here so ca’m-like, ef any trouble had ’a’ come to them, Ma.”
“Oh, well, if they’re all right, I’ll come back as soon as I’ve mixed my bread,” and Mrs. Beebe trotted out again.
Little Mr. Beebe began to work briskly on the minister’s shoe. As long as Ma was coming back, it wouldn’t pay to get flustered. Meantime the big woman plied him with questions till she had a pretty fair idea of the little-brown-house people, and all their ages and names.
Then she drew out her big hands again from the shawl-ends and held them up, “They’ll tell the story. I’ve worked some in my life,” she said, “an’ I never got no time to do for other folks.”
“Prob’ly not,” said the little shoemaker drily. “Well, here’s Ma,” and he drew a long breath of relief.
Little Mrs. Beebe had put on a fresh cap, and was now tying the strings of a clean white apron around her ample waist, as befitted sitting down in the shop.