"How rough of you!" says I. "Anything else?"
"Yes," says Vee. "We appointed a committee to tell him he'd better stop."
"Fine!" says I. "I expect he'll have everything marked down about forty per cent. by to-morrow night."
Somehow, it didn't work out just that way. Next report I got from Vee was that the committee had interviewed Belcher, but there was nothing doin'. He'd been awfully nice to 'em, even if he had talked through his cigar part of the time.
Belcher says he feels just as bad as they about havin' to soak on such stiff prices. But how can he help it? The cold-storage people are boostin' their schedules every day. They ain't to blame, either. They're bein' held up by the farmers out West who are havin' their hair cut too often. Besides, all the hens in the country have quit layin' and joined the I. W. W., and every kind of meat is scarce on account of Pershing's men developin' such big appetites. He's sorry, but he's doin' his best, considerin' the war and everything. If people would only get the habit of usin' corn meal for their pie crusts, everything would be lovely once more.
"An alibi on every count," says I. "I expect the committee apologized."
"Very nearly that," says Vee. "The sillies! I just wish I'd been there. I don't believe half of what he said is true."
"That's one thing," says I, "but provin' it on him would be another. And there's where Belcher's got you."
Course, I like to watch Vee in action, for she sure is a humdinger when she gets started. As a rule, too, I don't believe in tryin' to block her off in any of her little enterprises.
But here was once where it seemed to me she was up against a hopeless proposition. So I goes on to point out, sort of gentle and soothin', how war prices couldn't be helped, any more'n you could stop the tide from comin' in.