"If you das' to touch that whip, Abby Daggett," said she, "I'll git
right out o' this buggy and walk, so there!"
Mrs. Daggett's broad bosom shook with merriment.
"Fer pity sake, Ann, don't be scared," she exhorted her friend. "I
ain't never touched Dolly with the whip; but he knows I mean what I
say when I speak to him like that! ...I started in to tell you about
the Red-Fox Spring, didn't I?"
Mrs. Whittle coughed dryly.
"I wish I had a drink of it right now," she said. "The idea of that
Orr girl watering her flowers and grass, when everybody else in town
is pretty near burnt up. Why, we ain't had water enough in our
cistern to do the regular wash fer two weeks. I said to Joe and the
Deacon today: 'You can wear them shirts another day, for I don't know
where on earth you'll get clean ones.'"
"There ain't nothing selfish about Lydia Orr," proclaimed Mrs.
Daggett joyfully. "What _do_ you think she's going to do now?"
"How should I know?"
Mrs. Whittle's tone implied a jaded indifference to the doings of any
one outside of her own immediate family circle.
"She's going to have the Red-Fox piped down to the village," said
Mrs. Daggett. "She's had a man from Boston to look at it; and he says
there's water enough up there in the mountains to supply two or three
towns the size of Brookville. She's going to have a reservoir: and
anybody that's a mind to can pipe it right into their kitchens."
Mrs. Whittle turned her veiled head to stare incredulously at her
companion.
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