"Do you mean to say you will do the whitewashing?"
"I do. I don't do it to save a dollar, but for my own benefit. I always like the smell of lime."
"I wish you wouldn't do it. You will get lime in your eyes, and you will blame me for it, and—-"
"There you go! Blame you! What would I blame you about? If I get lime in my eyes it's my own fault. Mrs. Bowser, you are getting to be a good deal of a crank lately."
"Well, if you are determined on it, don't say that I asked you or encouraged you."
"That's a funny way to talk to me, Mrs. Bowser! Are you getting ready for the insane asylum? I think I run my own house yet. If I'm willing to peel off and do these odd jobs, I ought to be encouraged instead of insulted."
I was quite sure how it would end, but I said nothing more, and in the course of half an hour he got into his old clothes and went down cellar. I followed him down to give him a few last words of advice, but he didn't need them.
"You go right upstairs and sit down and enjoy yourself," he said. "Here's the brush and here's a pail of lime, and if I don't white-wash more cellar in ten minutes than Moses could in all day, I'll never try it again. Besides, Mrs. Bowser, whitewashing is not the slouch work you imagine it to be. It has got to be done by a person of taste and intelligence or it won't stand. I want a little blueing to give it a tinge."
"You understand," I said, as I got what he wanted, "that I did not ask you to do this work."
"Ask me! What on earth ails you, Mrs. Bowser? You are making fuss enough over ten minutes' work to warrant a year's job."