“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve come to apply to you for protection. My neighbours throw tin cans in my back yard every night, and I don’t like it.’
“He grinned from ear to ear, and asked me where I lived.
“‘On River Street,’ I said.
“He gave a whistle and stared at me. I didn’t have on anything remarkable—only a black cloth walking-skirt with a round hat, and that plain-looking white shirt-waist you gave me with the pretty handwork.”
“Which cost forty dollars,” said Margaretta, under her breath.
“Well, that man stared at me,” went on Berty, “and then what do you think he said in an easy tone of voice—‘And what have you been doing to your neighbours, my dear?’
“Margaretta, I was furious. ‘Get up out of your seat,’ I said, in a choking voice. ‘Take that cap off your head, and remember that you are in the presence of a lady. My grandfather was the late Judge Travers of this city, my brother-in-law is Mr. Roger Stanisfield, of the Stanisfield Iron Works, and my great-uncle is governor of the State. I’ll have you put out of office if you say “my dear” to me again.’”
Margaretta held her breath. Berty’s face was flaming at the reminiscence, and her ice-cream was slipping to the floor. “What did he say?” she gasped.
“I wish you could have seen him, Margaretta. He looked like a bumptious old turkey gobbler, knocked all of a heap by a small-sized chicken.