I guess that'll be the last fair we'll
ever have in that house. She wouldn't have everybody trampin' over
her flowered Body-Brussels. I suppose _we_ might buy some plush
furniture; but I don't know as I'd care for electric blue. What do
you think, son?"
Jim Dodge sat sprawled out in his chair before the half-set table. At
this picture of magnificence, about to be realized in the abode of
Deacon Amos Whittle, he gave vent to an inarticulate growl.
"What's the matter with you, Jim?" shrilled his mother, whose
perpetually jangled nerves were capable of strange dissonances.
"Anybody'd suppose you wasn't pleased at having the old Bolton place
sold at last, and a little bit of all that's been owing to us since
before your poor father died, paid off. My! If we was to have all
that was coming to us by rights, with the interest money--"
"I'm hungry and tired, mother, and I want my dinner," said Jim
brusquely. "That check won't hoe the potatoes; so I guess I'll have
to do it, same as usual."
"For pity sake, Fanny!" cried his mother, "did you put the vegetables
over to boil? I ain't thought of anything since this check came."
It appeared that Fanny had been less forgetful.
After his belated dinner, Jim had gone back to his potatoes, leaving
his mother and sister deep in discussion over the comparative virtues
of Nottingham lace and plain muslin, made up with ruffles, for parlor
curtains.
"I really believe I'd rather spend more on the house than on clo'es
at my age," he heard his mother saying, happily, as he strode away.
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