“Well,” says he, “that’s just what I’ve been studying on some. And I was thinking that if you women would cook the stuff, us men would chip in and buy the material. And wouldn’t it be some easier to cook it all in one place? I could let you have the Post Office hall, if you say so.”
“Why, Silas,” I says, “Silas ...” And I couldn’t say another word. And it was the rest of ’em let him know that we’d do it. And when they’d gone on,
“Do you think Timothy sensed that?” says Mis’ Toplady, meditative.
“I donno,” says I, “but I can see to it that he does.”
“I was only thinking,” says she, “that we’ve got seven dozen fresh eggs in the house, and we’re getting six quarts of milk a day now....”
“I’ll recall ’em,” says I, “to his mind.”
But when I’d run ahead and caught up with ’em, and mentioned eggs and milk suggestive, in them quantities,
“Sure,” says Timothy, “I just been telling Silas he could count on ’em.”
And that was a wonderful thing, for we one and all knew Timothy Toplady as one of them decanter men that the glass stopper can’t hardly be got out. But it wasn’t the most wonderful—for Silas spoke up fervent—ferventer than I’d ever known him to speak:
“They can have anything we’ve got, Calliope,” he says, “in our stores or our homes. Make ’em know that,” says he.