"Progress shouldn't be fat and wall-eyed," interposed Mr. Pottle. She ignored this.
"And I suppose that odious freckled daughter of hers would have to be the Spirit of Liberty or Civilization or something important, and I suppose that pompous Mr. Gulick would have to be the Pioneer Spirit—still, I think it could be managed. Now, you, Ambrose, can be——"
"I don't want to be the spirit of anything," he declared. "Count me out, Blossom."
Mrs. Pottle assumed a hurt pout.
"For my sake?" she said.
"I'm no actor," he stated.
"Oh, I don't want you to act," she said. "You're to be treasurer."
He wrinkled up his nose and brow into a frown.
"The dirty work," he exclaimed. "That's the way the world over. Us Pottles do the dirty work and the Gulicks get the glory. No, Blossom, no, no, no."
An appealing tear, and another, stole down her pink cheek.