“I never was called shiftless since I was born a wife and a house-keeper,” says Mis’ Pettibone, bordering on tearful.
“Oh, was you born a house-keeper, Mis’ Pettibone?” says Mis’ Puppy, sweet.
Then Mis’ Pettibone went in and set on the foot of the bed where we’d laid our things, and cried; and one or two of us went in and sort o’ poored her.
And, land, when we’d got her to come out, the first thing we heard was Mis’ Lockmeyer pitching into Mis’ Wilme.
“Anybody that can say I don’t make ice-cream as cheap as the best ain’t any of an ice-cream judge,” she was saying hot, “be they you or be they better.”
“I wasn’t saying a word about cheap,” says Mis’ Wilme, “I was talking about good.”
“Well,” says Mis’ Lockmeyer, “I thought I made it good.”
“Not with the little dab of cream you was just mentioning, you can’t,” says Mis’ Wilme, firm. “It ain’t reasonable nor chemical.”
“Don’t you think your long words is goin’ to impress me,” says Mis’ Lockmeyer, more and more het up.
“Well, ladies,” says Mis’ Elkhorn, humorous, “nobody can make it any colder’n anybody else, anyhow.”