Hypnotized, Mrs. Hummel lifted it and saw a price tag, $7.50.
“Why,” said she, forcing into her voice the daring experiment of a note of censure, “I didn’t know there was to be a prize!”
“Oh,” echoed Mrs. Wheelock from a distance, instilling into her tones a strain of triumph, “I didn’t know there was to be a prize!”
“No!” chimed all the women, in mutually sanctioning delight, “we didn’t know there was to be a prize!”
“Just a cheap little thing,” said Mrs. Stoker.
A new brightening of eyes fastened on euchre decks. The games went on with strange excitement; for, lo! all the women had suddenly resolved to win or ruin their nerves in the fight.
“Would you punch—while I look to the sherbet?” whispered Mrs. Stoker to Mrs. Hummel, with new, bald patronage.
The preacher’s wife stared round. The fascination of the game was influencing her. She felt her footing go; she saw the Stoker triumph, the reins gone from her hand. Desperately did she leap at this only chance to cling to the victorious vehicle of pleasure which her rival from this night on was to drive headlong through the Puritanic mood of Euchretown.
Mrs. Hummel punched the cards.
More fierce became the spirit of gaming, until, with final shriek of delight, Mrs. Wheelock won the statue. Followed by jealous eyes she took it.