“Oh,” says I, “ain’t it some their club too, Silas? I thought the whole thing was on their account.”
Silas used his face like he’d run a draw string down it.
“Women,” he says, “dum women. Their minds ain’t any more logical than—than floor-sweepings with the door open. Didn’t I just tell you that the thing was going to be done for the benefit of Friendship Village and to keep them folks interested in it?”
“Well, but,” I says, “ain’t them folks some Friendship Village too?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” shouts Silas. “Of course they are. Of course we want to help ’em. But they ain’t got anything to do with it. All they got to do with it is to be helped!”
“Is it!” I says. “Is that all, Silas?” And while he was a-gathering himself up to reply, I picked up the subscription paper. “It can’t do ’em no harm,” I says, “to tell ’em about this. Then if any of ’em is thinking of leaving, it may hold on to ’em till we get a start. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just run around and see ’em to-day. Mebbe they might help—who knows?”
“You’ll bawl the whole thing up,” says Silas. “I wish’t I’d kep’ my mouth shut.”
“Well,” I says, “you’d ought to know by this time that I ain’t any great hand to do things for folks, Silas. I like to do ’em with ’em.”
Silas was starting in to wave both arms when somebody come in for black molasses. And he says to me:
“Well, go on ahead. You’ll roon my whole idea—but go on ahead and see how little hurt you can do. I’ve got to have some lady-help from somewheres,” says he, frank.