“You know, Edward, I have never been one to complain,” he said, with an almost boyish note of apology.
“Never complained half enough; that's the trouble,” returned the other.
“Well, I overheard something Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Amos Trimmer the other afternoon. Mis' Trimmer was calling on Mis' Adkins. I couldn't help overhearing unless I went outdoors, and it was snowing and I had a cold. I wasn't listening.”
“Had a right to listen if you wanted to,” declared Hayward, irascibly.
“Well, I couldn't help it unless I went outdoors. Mis' Adkins she was in the kitchen making lightbread for supper, and Mis' Trimmer had sat right down there with her. Mis' Adkins's kitchen is as clean as a parlor, anyway. Mis' Adkins said to Mis' Trimmer, speaking of me—because Mis' Trimmer had just asked where I was and Mis' Adkins had said I was out in the woodshed sitting with the cats and smoking—Mis' Adkins said, 'He's just a doormat, that's what he is.' Then Mis' Trimmer says, 'The way he lets folks ride over him beats me.' Then Mis' Adkins says again: 'He's nothing but a door-mat. He lets everybody that wants to just trample on him and grind their dust into him, and he acts real pleased and grateful.'”
Hayward's face flushed. “Did Mrs. Adkins mention that she was one of the people who used you for a door-mat?” he demanded.
Jim threw back his head and laughed like a child, with the sweetest sense of unresentful humor. “Lord bless my soul, Edward,” replied Jim, “I don't believe she ever thought of that.”
“And at that very minute you, with a hard cold, were sitting out in that draughty shed smoking because she wouldn't allow you to smoke in your own house!”
“I don't mind that, Edward,” said Jim, and laughed again.
“Could you see to read your paper out there, with only that little shed window? And don't you like to read your paper while you smoke?”