“The miser’ble hash-slinger,” exploded the exasperated Sandy, springing to his feet, his eyes blazing with impotent fury.
“Sit down,” commanded the president. “This yere is a proper meetin’ of the Zip Trust, an’ don’t call fer no langwidge ag’in a defenseless woman.”
“Then she ain’t no right to say things,” cried the outraged man.
“She ain’t. She’s wrote ’em,” retorted Bill, in a manner that left nothing more to be said. “‘Consequenshul,’ was the word,” he went on, rolling it off his tongue as though he enjoyed its flavor, “an’ I allow it must have took her thinking some to be so elegant. You’ll set,” he added, glancing up severely at the still standing man.
Sandy dropped back on his box, but he was anything but appeased. His dignity was hurt sorely. He, who understood women so well, to be treated like this. Then he tried to console himself with the opinion that after all Birdie was not exactly a woman, only a “pot-rustler.” But Bill was pushing the business forward. He wanted to get the matter in hand settled.
“Here,” he went on, “this is how she says of them kids: ‘You can’t jest lay down reg’lations fer feedin’. Jest feed ’em natural, an’ if they git a pain dose ’em with physic. Ther’s some things you must kep ’em from gittin’ into their stummicks. Kindlin’ wood is ridiculous fer them to chew, ther’ ain’t no goodness in it, an’ it’s li’ble to run slivvers into their vitals. Sulphur matches ain’t good fer ’em to suck. I ain’t got nothing to say ’bout the sulphur, but the phospherus is sure injurious, an’, anyway, it’s easy settin’ ’emselves afire. Kids is ter’ble fond of sand, an’ gravel, an’ mud, inside an’ out. Outside ain’t no harm, ’cep’ it keps you washin’ ’em, but inside’s likely to give ’em colic. Don’t let ’em climb on tables an’ things. Ther’ never was a kid who could climb on to a table but what could fall off. Don’t let ’em lick stove-black off a hot cookstove. This don’t need explainin’ to folk of ord’nary intelligence. Coal is for makin’ a fire, an’ ain’t good eatin’. Boilin’ water has its uses, but it ain’t good play fer kids. Guns an’ knives ain’t needed fer kids playin’ Injun. These things is jest general notions to kep in your head fer ord’nary guidance. Kids’ clothes needs washin’ every Monday––with soap. Mebbe you’ll need to wash every day if kids is frolicsome. Bow-ties is for Sunday wear. Girl’s hair needs braidin’ every night, an’ don’t leave chewin’ t’baccer around. Kids is sure to eat it. Best give ’em physic every Saturday night, an’ bath ’em Sunday mornin’. Don’t use no hand scrubber. If you can’t git through the dirt by ord’nary washin’, best leave it. Kids is tender-skinned anyway. After their bath set ’em out in the sun, an’ give ’em an elegant Bible talk. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ like a Bible talk fer kids. It sets ’em wise to religion early, an’ gives ’em a good impression o’ the folks raisin’ ’em. Ef they ast too many questions you need to answer ’em with discretion––’”
“Wot’s she mean by that?” asked Toby, all interest in the mass of detail.
“Mean? Why––” Bill paused considering.
Sunny looked up from his writing.
“Why, don’t say fool things fer the sake of gassin’!” he explained readily. “Everything you tell ’em needs a moral.”