“Is he to have it washed with soap, maw?”
“He shore is. Any one would think you had been born and raised in Arizony or Nebrasky, to hear you talk. I’m plumb ashamed of you, Judy.”
“But, ’deed, maw, I ain’t big enough to wash his face with soap. It takes Topeka to hold his head.”
The subject of the discussion still sat on the edge of the bed, a small lord of creation, letting his women folk arrange among themselves who should minister to his wants. As an instrument of torture the washcloth, in the hands of his sister Judy, was no ignoble rival of the cactus thorn. The question of making terms for his sufferings again appealed to him in the light of a feasible business proposition.
“Muvvy, tan’t I have the apple? Judy hurts me a lot when she wathes my face wis soap.”
“Yes, you can have the apple, honey; and, Judy, you be gentle with him. Don’t rub his features up, and be careful and don’t get soap in his eyes.”
“No’m.” And Judy heroically stifled the longing to slick her hair, like Topeka’s, with the wet hairbrush. There were easier tasks than washing the face of her younger brother.
When Topeka and her mother were alone in the kitchen, Topeka grinding the coffee and all unconsciously working her jaw in an accompaniment to the coffee-mill, her mother bent over her and said:
“Did you dream of anything last night?”
Topeka simultaneously stopped working the coffee-mill and her jaw, and regarded her mother solemnly. She did not remember having been thus questioned about her dreams before.