“Er—yes—but often there isn’t anybody. It makes a great deal of work for poor Mrs. Gowdy. She can’t see to everything outside as well as in,” said Miss Wilcox, nervously, conscious that her explanations amounted to an apology; it annoyed her. And now the coon in the kitchen unwittingly added to the embarrassments of the situation by shoving up the window-screen and flinging an over-ripe tomato in the general direction of the ministerial garbage can; it fell short, spattering seeds and pulp; the coon—she was a strapping, coffee-coloured slattern—regarded it absently a moment while she wrung out a leprous-looking rag, sent a sharp glance toward the audience on the other side of the fence, and slammed down the screen, slouching back to her labours at a sink full of dishes.
“Mrs. Gowdy simply can’t see to everything,” Miss Martha repeated feebly. She awaited the other’s further comment in something of a panic; but Mrs. Shields had none to make. Her gaze, as it roved round the unkempt enclosure, was one of complete detachment. She was turning away when melodious, preluding chords on the piano sounded from within the parsonage, and Mrs. Gowdy’s pleasant soprano uplifted in “Angels ever bright and fair.” She sang with taste and feeling, but Miss Martha uneasily wished that she had not begun just at this moment; it was inopportune, somehow.
“That’s some of that music you was scairt I wouldn’t like, huh? Why, it ain’t so bad!” said Mrs. Shields tolerantly. “Anyway, I never let nothing the neighbours does worry me much,” she added, glancing again, perhaps involuntarily, at the Gowdy premises. “Live and let live, I always say. Oh, say, look what’s coming!”
It was a little procession of the Gowdy children round the corner of the house, Thomas junior in the lead, shouldering a spade and issuing bluff words of command; Florence came next, with a black silk petticoat, evidently borrowed from some much more mature wardrobe than her own, solemnly draped upon her; the twins were hauling the catafalque, that is, their Irish-Mail wagon, a shoe-box disposed upon it and covered with an unbelievably dirty towel; and Wilbur, straddling his kiddie-car, theoretically brought up the rear. In reality, he tooled along to suit himself, with erratic swoops and circles, carrying on an inarticulate, one-sided conversation the while. They halted, after some shrill disagreements, at one of the bare, hard-trodden spots occurring sporadically among the weeds of the parsonage back yard, and Tommie was about to attack it with the spade when all hands simultaneously became aware of the uninvited witnesses. There was an interval of silent staring broken by Wilbur, who, as has been seen, was a sociable soul, without sufficient field for the exercise of his gift.
“’O,’ady!” said he, steering up to the fence.
“My, my, ain’t you little folks busy, though!” said Mrs. Shields genially. “Watch out, buddy, you’ll get a sticker in your eye. What’s he say?”
“’O,’ady!” cried Wilbur with vehemence.
Tom authoritatively advised him to shut up. “‘Hello, lady!’ that’s what he’s trying to say. He can’t talk plain yet, he’s only two and a half. We’ve got to be after him the whole time. It’s fierce!” he explained gloomily.
“Well, now, I think that’s real nice, taking care of your little brother——”
“Icky eye!” interrupted Wilbur urgently. “Icky eye!”