“She’s yours,” pronounces Magpie. “If anybody interferes with your habitation you send for me.”
“And in case he’s too busy I’ll come,” says I. “He’s a busy man. I’m sorry he was so quick to startle yuh, and make yuh bust your dough mug. He’s abrupt that-away.”
“No matter,” says she, “Won’t yuh come in?”
Just wouldn’t we? Say! Them onions was the greatest and the biscuits was the lightest yuh ever seen. Coffee? Nectar of the gods. There ain’t much furniture in the place, but what is in there looks homelike. She’s got a enlarged picture on the wall, the same of which seems familiar.
“Ma’am,” says Magpie, pointing at it, “would yuh mind telling me who the distinguished-looking gent is?”
“Was,” says she, sad-like. “He’s gone and——”
“Magpie,” says I, “don’t presume on short acquaintance to stir up sad memories. There don’t seem to be nothing sacred to him, ma’am.”
She smiles at us, sweet-like, and nods;
“Yes, he’s gone, but his memory lingers. He was a good man.”
“You dang well know he was,” agrees Magpie. “If he wasn’t his picture wouldn’t be on your walls. What did you say your name was?”