Thyrza always spoke of herself in a business capacity as “we.” “Could you maake up two penn’orth? Harry and Zacky are unaccountable fond of them.”
“You’re a kind brother—buying sweeties for all the family. I reckon the bull’s-eyes are fur your sisters.”
“Reckon they are. No use giving monster telephones to girls—they can’t be eaten dentical.”
This was obvious when Thyrza finally unearthed the telephones in an old case under the ginger-beer box. They were long, black coiling strings of liquorice, requiring sleight of hand, combined with a certain amount of unfastidiousness, for their consumption. Tom was disappointed that Thyrza had found them so soon. He stood by the counter, fingering his purchases and wishing his money was not all gone.
“I hear you’ve bin up at the Tribunal,” said Thyrza, coming to the rescue.
“Yes—they woan’t let me off.”
“You’re sorry, I reckon.”
“Unaccountable. I doan’t know wot ull become of the farm.”
Thyrza sighed sympathetically, having nothing to say in the way of comfort.