"'Well,' she says, 'supposin'. Are we runnin' this paper or ain't we? There's nothin' to prevent our writin' editorials about these things, as I see. Our husbands can't very well sue us for libel, because they'd hev to pay it themselves. Nor they can't put us in prison for debt, because who'd get their three meals? I can't see but we're sure of an interestin' paper, anyway.'
"Then she looked over at me sort of sad.
"'Go on, Calliope,' says she, 'you know what you've got to do. Do it,' she says, 'to the bitter end.'
"I knew, and I started out, and I made straight for Silas Sykes, and the post-office store. Silas wan't in the store, it was so early; but he had the floor all sprinkled nice, and the vegetables set out, all uncovered, close to the sidewalk; and everything real tasty and according to grocery-store etiquette. The boy was gone that day. And Silas himself was in the back room, sortin' over prunes.
"'Hello, Calliope,' s'he. 'How's literchoor?'
"'Honest as ever,' I says. 'Same with food?'
"'Who says I ain't honest?' says Silas, straightening up, an' holding all his fingers stiff 'count of being sticky.
"'Why, I donno who,' says I. 'Had anybody ought to? How's business, Silas?'
"'Well,' says he, 'for us that keeps ourselves up with the modern business methods, it's pretty good, I guess.'