“Barbara, you come an’ git the bread. I’m busy.”
The children seated around the table stared at one another.
“Whew!” whispered Jack to Gassy; “now, by my halidame, there goes Barbara. Is Petruchio in the kitchen?”
Barbara reëntered with scarlet cheeks. There was something in her manner which warned even the Kid not to comment The meal began in absolute silence, another cause of which may have been the perfectly cooked dinner, which descended like manna into the loyal but empty stomachs of the Grafton offspring. The Kid ate his steak voraciously, and eagerly extended his plate for more.
“See ’ow ’e’s ben pinin’,” remarked a voice from the open doorway.
The children started, and looking up, for the first time saw the dignified figure of Mrs. Harris surveying them with a condescendingly satisfied gaze. “These are all the children, I s’pose, Barbara. Well, now, there’s a nice rice puddin’ for dessert, an’ then you an’ that little girl can ’elp me clear away to-day, ’cause there’s so much to do to clean up this ’ouse.”
“I don’t want any pudding,” declared Jack, in haste, longing to get away to some nook where he could laugh unseen.
“Set right where you are,” said Mrs. Harris, calmly. “You don’t get no more to eat till supper, so you’d better fill up now.”
Jack gasped and obeyed.
Even when dinner was over, and the dishes washed with the surprised help of a subdued Gassy, there was no diminution of Mrs. Harris’s energy. She cleaned the kitchen thoroughly; she scrubbed the bathroom; she charged upon the children’s rooms, and the dust and dirt retreated in confusion before her vigorous onslaught. She accompanied the performances with a running fire of ejaculatory comment. Barbara, with set lips, kept just behind her, and followed directions with an injured determination to die in her tracks before giving up.