like one of your busy days," says I.

"One of 'em!" says she with a snort, yankin' some more pieces out of the
bundle and slippin' a fresh spool of cotton onto the machine.

"What's the job?" says I.

"Baby dresses," says she.

"Good money in it?" says I.

"Oh, sure!" says she. "Forty cents a dozen is good, ain't it?"

"What noble merchant prince is so generous to you as all that?" says I.

Mrs. Tiscott, she shoves over the sweater's shop tag so I can read for
myself. Curious,--wa'n't it?--but it's the same firm whose name heads the
Piny Crest subscription list. It's time to change the subject.

"How's Annie?" says I, lookin' over at her.

"Her cough don't seem to get any better," says Mrs. Tiscott. "She's had
it since she had to quit work in the gas mantle shop. That's where she
got it. The dust, you know."

Yes, I knew. "How about Tony?" says I.

"Tony!" says she, hard and bitter. "How do I know? He ain't been near us
for a month past."

"Sends in something of a Saturday, don't he?" says I.

"Would I be lettin' the likes of her--that Miss Colliver--come here if he
did," says she, "or workin' my eyes out like this?"

"I thought Lizzie was in a store?" says I, noddin' towards the
twelve-year-old girl at the nut pickin' table.

"They always lays off half the bundle girls after Christmas," says Mrs.
Tiscott. "That's why we don't see Tony regular every payday any more. He
had the nerve to claim most of Lizzie's envelope."

Then it was my turn to say "Huh!"

"Why don't you have him up?" says I.

"I'm a-scared," says she. "He's promised to break my head."

"Think he would?" says I.

"Yes," says she. "He's changed for the worse lately. He'd do it, all
right, if I took him to court."

"What if I stood ready to break his, eh?" says I. "Would that hold him?"

Say, it wa'n't an elevatin' or cheerful conversation me and Mrs. Tiscott
indulged in; but it was more or less to the point. She's some int'rested
in the last proposition of mine, and when I adds a few frills about
givin' a butcher's order and standin' for a sack of potatoes, she agrees
to swear out the summons for Tony, providin' I'll hand it to him and be
in court to scare the liver out of him when she talks to the Justice.

"I hate to do it too," says she.

"I know," says I; "but no meat or potatoes from me unless you do!"

Sounds kind of harsh, don't it? You'd think I had a special grudge
against Tony Tiscott too. But say, it's only because