"I guess I know when to speak an' when not to," she remarked. "Now
don't beat about the bush; the men-folks'll be back to rights. I never
in my life give Len a mite o' news he couldn't ha' picked up for
himself."
"Well, some master silly pieces have got into the paper, fust an'
last," said Mrs. Robbins. "Recollect how your Len come 'way over here
to git his shoes cobbled, the week arter Tom Brewer moved int' the
Holler, an' folks hadn't got over swappin' the queer things he said?
an' when Tom got the shoes done afore he promised, Len says to him,
'You're better'n your word.' 'Well,' says Tom, 'I flew at 'em with all
the venom o' my specie.' An' it wa'n't a fortnight afore that speech
come out in a New York paper, an' then the Sudleigh 'Star' got hold on
't, an' so 't went. If folks want that kind o' thing, they can git a
plenty, _I_ say." She set her lips defiantly, and looked round on the
assembled group. This was something she had meant to mention; now she
had done it.
The informal meeting was aghast. A flavor of robust humor was
accustomed to enliven it, but not of a sort to induce dissension.
"There! there!" murmured Sally Ware. "It's the Sabbath day!"
"Well, nobody's breakin' of it, as I know of," said Mrs.
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