“Ladies always has curtains,” says he, superior.
“I donno,” says I. “I saw one yesterday that didn’t even have a carpet.”
“Where?” asks Mr. Dombledon.
It kind of surprised me to hear him speak up—of course I’d introduced him all around, same as you do roomers and even agents in a little town, where you behave in general more as if folks were folks than you do in the City where they ain’t so much folks as lawyers, ladies, milkmen, ministers, and so on. But yet I hadn’t really expected Mr. Dombledon to volunteer.
“Down on the Tote road,” I says, “the old Toll Gate House. You ain’t familiar with it, I guess.”
“Is this hers curtains?” asks Donnie. “And can I have some pink peaches sauce like in the kitchen?”
“They’s hers curtains,” says I, “and if you’d just as soon make it plums, you shall have all of them in the kitchen that’s good for you.” And off he went outdoors making up a song about pink plums.
All of a sudden his father spoke up again.
“Do—do you need any more help?” he says.
“Sure we do,” says I.