“A gentleman is knowd be the way he lends, my pap use to say,” drawled the Loafer, gazing absently at the ceiling.
“Well, ef your father was anything like his son he knowd the truth o’ that sayin’,” snapped the Tinsmith.
“He use to argy,” continued the Loafer, ignoring this remark, “that them ez hesn’t the mawral courage to refuse to lend ’hen they don’t want to, is allus weak enough to bemoan their good deeds in public. But it ain’t no use discussin’ them pints. I got everything I needed, an’ on the next mornin’ the Missus was up airly an’ at six o’clock hed the fire goin’ in the back yard, with the kittle rigged over it an’ hed begin to bile down that bawrel o’ cider.
“Bilin’ down ain’t bad fer they hain’t nawthin’ to do. It’s ’hen ye begins puttin’ in the schnitz an’ hes to stir ketches ye. I didn’t ’low I’d stir. Missus, ’hen the cider was all biled down to a kittle full, sayd I hev ter, but I claimed I’d worked enough gittin’ the things. Besides I’d a ’pointment to see Sam Shores, the stage-driver, ’hen he come th’oo here that afternoon. The Missus an’ her weemen frien’s grumbled, but begin dumpin’ the schnitz in with the bilin’ cider an’ to do their own stirrin’. I come over here an’ was waitin’ fer the stage. After an’ hour I concided I’d run over to the house an’ git a drink o’ cider. I went in the back way, an’ there I seen Ike Lauterbach’s wife a-standin’ stirrin’. The rest o’ the weemen was in the kitchen.
“‘Hen Mrs. Lauterbach seen me she sais pleasant like, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Your wife an’ the rest o’ the ladies hes made a batch o’ cookies. Now you jest stir here a minute an’ I’ll go git some fer ye.’
“I was kind o’ afraid to take holt on that there stirrer, so sayd I’d git ’em meself. But she ’sisted she’d be right out, an’ foolish I tuk the han’le. I regret it the minute I done it. I stirred an’ stirred, an’ Mrs. Lauterbach didn’t come. Then I hear the weemen in the house laughin’ like they’d die.
“The Missus she puts her head out an’ sais, ‘Jest you keep on stirrin’. Don’t you dast stop fer the butter’ll stick to the kittle an’ burn it ef ye does.’
“Down went the windy. I was jest that hoppin’ mad I’d a notion to quit right there an’ leave the ole thing burn, but then I was afraid Abe Scissors might kerry on ef I did. So I stirred, an’ stirred, an’ stirred. I tell ye I don’t know any work ez mean ez that. Stop movin’ the stick an’ the kittle burns. Ef any o’ you uns ever done it you’ll know it ain’t no man’s work.”
“The weemen allus does it with us,” said the Miller in a superior tone.
“I cal’lated they was to do it with us, but I mistook,” the Loafer continued. “I stirred, an’ stirred, an’ stirred. The fire got hotter an’ hotter an’ hotter, an’ ez it got warmer the han’le o’ the stirrer seemed to git shorter, an’ me face begin to blister. I kep’ at it fer an’ hour an’ a half, tell me legs was near givin’ way under me, me fingers was stiff an’ achin’, me arms felt like they’d drop off from pushin’ an’ twistin’ that long stick. The apples was all dissolved but the butter was thin yit, an’ I knowd it meant th’ee hours afore we could take the kittle offen the fire.