“Ann—‘A-n-n’.” I spelled aloud, to give her the chance to correct me if necessary. Thinking of the famous query connected with that name and thankful I didn’t have to ask that, too, I continued:
“You have a husband?”
“No, not now. I’ve had ’em, though.”
“Ah, a widow, then—that is, I presume your husband is not alive, Mrs. Cook?” I essayed gently, avoiding, as always, the direct interrogation as to grass-widowship.
“No; they’re all on ’em dead now; but, Mister, my name ain’t Cook—it’s Hay!”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Why, I understood you to say it was Cook?”
“Well, yuh understood right. It was Cook—that what’s yuh asked me, what it was—but it’s Hay now. ’Bout two years after Cook went up in smoke I married a feller named Hay, see?”
“Oh yes,” I smiled cheerfully, and, reversing my pencil I endeavored to rub off the former husband’s name.
Of course the flimsy paper tore. I yanked out the sheet and began again.