Mrs. Temple was beaming when I came down from my bath.
“Why so happy?” said I.
“Well,” said she, “in the first place, I’ve got you the housekeeper I want.”
“By which I infer that she’s the one I want, too?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Temple, on whom irony had no effect. “She’s Mrs. Pillig, from Slab City, and she’s an artist in pies.”
“Go on; you interest me strangely!” I cried. “Is her husband dead, and has she got a small boy?” (Here I winked at Bert.)
“Pillig ain’t dead, worse luck,” said Mrs. Temple, “but he’s whar he won’t trouble you. I guess Peter won’t trouble you none, neither. He’s a nice boy, and he’ll be awful handy round the place.”
“Peter Pillig!” I exclaimed. “There ain’t no such animal! If there is, Dickens was his grandfather. How old is Peter?”
“Peter’s eleven,” Mrs. Bert replied. “He’s real nice and bright. His mother’s brought him up fine. Anyhow, she was a Corliss.”
“But, eugenically speaking, Peter may have a predisposition to follow in father’s footsteps, which I infer led toward the little green swinging doors,” I protested.