Mis’ Silas Sykes spoke up with her way of measuring off just enough for everybody.
“It’s this way Silas means,” she says. “Folks are rich, or medium, or poor. We’ve got to face that. It’s always been so.”
Mis’ Toplady kind of bit at her lower lip a few times in a way she has, that wrinkles up her nose meditative. “It don’t follow out,” she says, firm. “My back yard used to be all chickweed. Now it’s pure potatoes.”
“Folks,” says Mis’ Sykes, real witherin’, “folks ain’t dirt.”
“That’s what I thought,” says Mis’ Toplady, dry.
Silas went right over their heads, like he does.
“We’ve all been doin’ what we could for these folks,” he says, “but we ain’t been doin’ it real wise. It’s come to my notice that the Haskitts had four different chickens give to ’em last Christmas. What we want to do is to fix up some sort of a organization so’s our chickens won’t lap.”
“Well,” says Timothy Toplady, “then let’s organize. That ain’t hard. I move it be done.”
It was done, and Silas was made president, like he ever loves to be, and Timothy treasurer, and me secretary, because they could get me to take it.
“Now,” says Silas, “let’s get down to work and talk over cases.”