The tension to which the gathering had been strung abruptly loosened in mirth.
“Mrs. Sharpless will please take the platform,” invited the Mayor-chairman.
“No, I’ll do my talking from here.” The old lady stood up, a straight, solid, uncompromising figure, in the center of the floor. “I met those two ladies in the parsonage hall,” she explained. “They were coming out as I was going in. They stopped to talk to me. They both talked at once. I wouldn’t want to say that they were—well—exactly—”
“Spifflicated,” suggested a helpful voice from the far rear.
“Spifflicated; thank you,” accepted the speaker. “But they certainly were—”
“Lit up,” volunteered another first-aid to the hesitant.
“Yes, lit up. One of them loaned me her bottle. If I’m any judge of bad whiskey, that was it.”
An appreciative roar from the house testified to the fact that Mrs. Sharpless had her audience in hand.
“As for you women on the stage,” she pursued, rising to her topic, “I know what’s wrong with you.‘Mandy Gryce, if you’d tend more to your house and less to your symptoms, you wouldn’t be flitting from allopathic bud to homoeopathic flower like a bumblebee with the stomach-ache.” (“Hear, hear!” from Mr. Gryce.) “Lizzie Tompy, your fits are nine tenths temper. I’d cure you of ‘em without morphine. Miss Smithson, if you’d quit strong green tea, three times a day, those nerves of yours would give you a fairer chance—and your neighbors, too.” (Tearful sniffs from Miss Smithson.)
“Auntie Thomas, you wait and see what your rheumatism says to you to-morrow, when the dope has died out of your system. Susan Carlin, you ought to be home this minute, looking after your sick boy, instead of on a stage, in your best bib and tucker, giving testimonials to you-don’t-know-what-all poison.