"She mucked up my mushroom bed, the baggage!" said Uncle Pentstemon

ungenially, "and I give it to her to rights. Trounced her I

did--fairly. I remember her. Here's some green stuff for you, Grace.

Fresh it is and wholesome. I shall be wanting the basket back and mind

you let me have it.... Have you nailed him down yet? You always was a

bit in front of what was needful."

His attention was drawn inward by a troublesome tooth, and he sucked

at it spitefully. There was something potent about this old man that

silenced everyone for a moment or so. He seemed a fragment from the

ruder agricultural past of our race, like a lump of soil among things

of paper. He put his basket of vegetables very deliberately on the new

violet tablecloth, removed his hat carefully and dabbled his brow, and

wiped out his hat brim with a crimson and yellow pocket handkerchief.

I'm glad you were able to come, Uncle," said Mrs. Johnson.

Oh, I came" said Uncle Pentstemon. "I came."

He turned on Mrs. Larkins. "Gals in service?" he asked.

"They aren't and they won't be," said Mrs. Larkins.

"No," he said with infinite meaning, and turned his eye on Mr. Polly.

"You Lizzie's boy?" he said.

The History of Mr Polly