The Woman-Haters Part 30

"I come for my s.h.i.+rt," he declared.

"Your s.h.i.+rt?"

"Yes, my other s.h.i.+rt. I left it in the kitchen this mornin', and that--that helper of mine says you was in the chair along with it."

"Humph! Did he have the impudence to say I took it?"

"No--o. No, course he didn't. But it's gone and--and--"

"What would I want of your s.h.i.+rt? Didn't think I was cal'latin' to wear it, did you?"

"No, but--"

"I should hope not. I ain't a Doctor Mary Walker, or whatever her name is."

"But you did take it, just the same. I'm sartin you did. You must have."

The lady's mouth relaxed, and there was a twinkle in her eye.

"All right, Seth," she said. "Suppose I did; what then?"

"I want it back, that's all."

"You can have it. Now what do you s'pose I took it for?"

"I--I--I don't know."

"You don't know? Humph! Did you think I wanted to keep it as a souveneer of last night's doin's?"

Her companion looked rather foolish. He picked up a handful of sand and sifted it through his fingers.

"No--o," he stammered. "I--I know how partic'lar you are--you used to be about such things, and I thought maybe you didn't like the way that b.u.t.ton was sewed on."

He glanced up at her with an embarra.s.sed smile, which broadened as he noticed her expression.

"Well," she admitted, "you guessed right. There's some things I can't bear to have in my neighborhood, and your kind of sewin' is one of 'em.

Besides, I owed you that much for keepin' me out of the wet last night."

"Oh! I judged by the way you lit into me for luggin' you acrost that marsh that all you owed me was a grudge. I DID lug you, though, in spite of your kickin', didn't I?"

He nodded with grim triumph. She smiled.

"You did, that's a fact," she said. "I was pretty mad at the time, but when I come to think it over I felt diff'rent. Anyhow I've sewed on those b.u.t.tons the way they'd ought to be."

"Much obliged. I guess they'll stay now for a spell. You always could sew on b.u.t.tons better'n anybody ever I see."

"Humph!" . . . Then, after an interval of silence: "What are you grinnin' to yourself about?"

"Hey? . . . Oh, I was just thinkin' how you mended up that Rogers young one's duds when he fell out of our Bartlett pear tree. He was the raggedest mess ever I come acrost when I picked him up. Yellin' like a wild thing he was, and his clothes half tore off."

"No wonder he yelled. Caught stealin' pears--he expected to be thrashed for that--and he KNEW Melindy Rogers would whip him, for tearin' his Sunday suit. Poor little thing! Least I could do was to make his clothes whole. I always pity a child with a stepmother, special when she's Melindy's kind."

"What's become of them Rogerses? Still livin' in the Perry house, are they?"

"No. Old Abel Perry turned 'em out of that when the rent got behind.

He's the meanest skinflint that ever strained skim milk. He got married again a year ago."

"NO! Who was the victim? Somebody from the Feeble-Minded Home?"

She gave the name of Mr. Perry's bride, and before they knew it the pair were deep in village gossip. For many minutes they discussed the happenings in the Cape Ann hamlet, and then Seth was recalled to the present by a casual glance at his watch.

"Land!" he exclaimed. "Look at the time! This talk with you has seemed so--so natural and old-timey, that . . . Well, I've got to go."

He was scrambling to his feet. She also attempted to rise, but found it difficult.

"Here," he cried, "give me your hand. I'll help you up."

"I don't want any help. Let me alone. Let me ALONE, I tell you."

His answer was to seize her about the waist and swing her bodily to her feet. She was flushed and embarra.s.sed. Then she laughed shortly and shook her head.

"What are you laughin' at?" he demanded, peering over the knoll to make sure that neither John Brown nor Miss Graham was in sight.

"Oh, not much," she answered. "You kind of surprise me, Seth."

"Why?"

"'Cause you've changed so."

"Changed? How?"

"Oh, changed, that's all. You seem to have more s.p.u.n.k than you used to have."

"Humph! Think so, do you?"

"Yes, I do. I think bein' a lightkeeper must be good for some folks--some kind of folks."

"I want to know!"

"Yes, you better be careful, or you'll be a real man some day."

His answer was an angry stare and a snort. Then he turned on his heel and was striding off.

"Wait!" she called. "Hold on! Don't you want your s.h.i.+rt? Stay here, and I'll go into the house and fetch it."

He waited, sullen and reluctant, until she returned with the article of apparel in one hand and the other concealed beneath her ap.r.o.n.

"Here it is," she said, presenting the s.h.i.+rt to him.