“Then Testament says:
“‘Brother Steele, you’ve said a lot in them few lines. Your idea of givin’ this under the auspices of my church is goin’ to make a hit with the womin folks. That takes the curse off.’
“Just then this here female shows up—barefooted.”
Mrs. Holt stops for breath.
“Can she dance? asks Mrs. Smith, wheezin’ quite a lot.
“Well—” Mrs. Holt looks around at us, and swallers real hard—“well—Mrs. Smith, I reckon we better go over to your house to tell the rest of it.”
They went across the street like they was afraid they’d get wet.
“I’ll never eat another meal in Sam Holt’s place again,” declares Muley. “I’ll get even with her by boycottin’ her husband.”
“I’m goin’ home,” says I. “The peace and quiet of Piperock is about null and void, and I need solitary communion with my pet hunch. Somethin’ tells me that all is not well. In fact somethin’ tells me that all is not only not well, but in danged delicate health.”
Nobody can read Piperock’s mind, but I’ve seen disaster come and go, and my personal prognostications are about on a par with a weather man prophesyin’ fair and warm in Death Valley.