The communication was probably intended as encouragement, but the effect was depressing, and at the end of an hour, Harlan had written only two lines more in his book, neither of which pleased him.
Meanwhile, Dick was renewing his old acquaintance with Mrs. Smithers, much to that lady’s pleasure, though she characteristically endeavoured to conceal it. She belonged to a pious sect which held all mirth to be ungodly.
“Sally,” Dick was saying, “I’ve dreamed of your biscuits night and day since I ate the last one. Are we going to have ’em for lunch?”
“No biscuits in this house to-day,” grumbled the deity of the kitchen, in an attempt to be properly stern, “and as I’ve told you more than once, my name ain’t ‘Sally.’ It’s Mis’ Smithers, that’s wot it is, and I’ll thank you to call me by it.”
“Between those who love,” continued Dick, with a sidelong glance at Dorothy, who stood near by, appalled at his daring, “the best is none too good for common use. If my heart breaks the bonds of conventional restraint, and I call you by the name under which you always appear to me in my longing dreams, why should you not be gracious, and forgive me? Be kind to me, Sally, be just a little kind, and throw together a pan of those biscuits in your own inimitable style!”
“Run along with you, you limb of Satan,” cried Mrs. Smithers, brandishing a floury spoon.
“Come along, Dorothy,” said Dick, laying a huge but friendly paw upon Mrs. Carr’s shoulder; “we’re chased out.” He put his head back into the kitchen, however, to file a parting petition for biscuits, which was unnecessary, for Mrs. Smithers had already found her rolling-pin and had begun to sift her flour.
Outside, he duly admired Maud, who was chewing the cud of reflection under a tree, created a panic in the chicken yard by lifting Abdul Hamid ignominiously by the legs, to see how heavy he was, and chased Claudius Tiberius under the barn.
“If that cat turns up missing some day,” he said, “don’t blame me. He looks so much like Uncle Ebeneezer that I can’t stand for him.”
“There’s something queer about Claudius, anyway,” ventured Dorothy. “Mrs. Smithers says that uncle killed him the week before he died, and——”