“Togo,” dictate Mrs. H. Griddle, stopping her soprano sifficiently to speak, “you will kindly give ade to Hon. Maggie today in clothes wash ceremony.”
“O thank you not to do so!” I declare with pathos.
“Why so?” she snagger with Mary Garden expression.
“This Hon. Maggie treat me without chivalry. How could I be assistant scrub beside her haughty actions?” I resolve.
“Either do so or deprive yourself of this job,” she holla, departing off in high Key of C.
I find Hon. Maggie lady in laundry preparing to suds. Redness appear from her hair and arms while she look to me with cross expression peculiar to a eagle watching an angly-worm. Then she lift wash-boiler from stove showing energy like Sandow juggling automobiles.
“Jap,” she reproach.
“Yes, Sir!” I pronounce.
“Was you sent here to look beautiful or to be helpful?” she ask out.
“Not sure—Mrs. Boss did not instruct me which to be,” I report.