"No, Hull Parsons, I don't see a single mite, nor I don't know a particle,
an' I ain't agreein' the least bit," snapped the widow, pounding the
creases out of the tablecloth.
"But say, widdy, don't get riled so soon," again ventured Parsons. "I was
jest goin' to tell you that I've been proposing to Carpenter Brown to
build a new--"
By this time the widow was glancing at him in a way he wished she
wouldn't.
"Is that all the proposin' you've done in the last five mouths, Hull
Parsons?" she demanded stormily. "You ain't asked every old maid for miles
around to marry you, have you, Hull Parsons? An' you didn't tell the last
one you proposed to that if she didn't take you there would be only one
more chance left--that old pepper-box of a Widow Perkins? You didn't say
that, now, did you, Hull Parsons?" and the widow's eyes and voice snapped
fire all at once.
The caller turned several different shades of red and realized that he had
struck the biggest snag he'd ever struck in any courting career, past or
present. He laughed violently for a second or two, tried to hang his
hat on both knees at the same time, and finally sank his voice to a
confidential undertone:--
"Now, widdy, that's the woman's way o' puttin' it. They've been jealous o'
you all 'long, fur they knew where my mind was sot. I wouldn't married one
o' them women for nothing," added the widower, with another hitch toward
the ironing board.
"Huh!" responded the widow, losing a trifle of her warlike cast of
countenance.
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