"Several of the young fellows are in thar now," he remarked offhand, "an' I've jest had to go in an' git between Fred Turner an' Will Fletcher.They came to out an' out blows, an' I had to shake 'em both by the scuff of thar necks befo' they'd hish snarlin'.Bless yo' life, all about a woman, too, every last word of it.Well, well, meanin' no disrespect to you, Susan, it's a queer thing that a man can't be born, married, or buried without a woman gittin' herself mixed up in the business.If she ain't wrappin' you in swaddlin' bands, you may be sho' she's measurin'
off yo' windin'-sheet.Mark my words, Mr.Christopher, I don't believe thar's ever been a fight fought on this earth--be it a battle or a plain fisticuff--that it warn't started in the brain of somebody's mother, wife, or sweetheart an' it's most likely to have been the sweetheart.It is strange, when you come to study 'bout it, how sech peaceable-lookin' creaturs as women kin have sech hearty appetites for trouble.""Well, trouble may be born of a woman, but it generally manages to take the shape of a man," observed Mrs.Spade from behind the counter, where she was filling a big glass jar with a fresh supply of striped peppermint candy."And as far as that goes, ever sence the Garden of Eden, men have taken a good deal mo'
pleasure in layin' the blame on thar wives than they do in layin'
blows on the devil.It's a fortunate woman that don't wake up the day after the weddin' an' find she's married an Adam instid of a man.However, they are as the Lord made 'em, I reckon," she finished charitably, "which ain't so much to thar credit as it sounds, seein' they could have done over sech a po' job with precious little trouble.""Oh, I warn't aimin' at you, Susan," Tom hastened to assure her, aware from experience that he entered an argument only to be worsted."You've been a good wife to me, for all yo' sharp tongue, an' I've never had to git up an' light the fire sence the day I married you.Yes, you've been a first-rate wife to me, an'
no mistake."
"I'm the last person you need tell that to," was Mrs.Spade's retort."I don't reckon I've b'iled inside an' sweated outside for mo' than twenty years without knowin' it.Lord! Lord! If it took as hard work to be a Christian as it does to be a wife, thar'd be mighty few but men in the next world--an' they'd git thar jest by followin' like sheep arter Adam--""I declar', Susan, I didn't mean to rile you," urged Tom, breaking in upon the flow of words with an appealing effort to divert its course."I was merely crackin' a joke with Mr.
Christopher, you know."
"I'm plum sick of these here jokes that's got to have a woman on the p'int of 'em," returned Mrs.Spade, tightly screwing on the top of the glass jar."I've always noticed that thar ain't nothin' so funny in this world but it gits a long sight funnier if a man kin turn it on his wife.""Now, my dear--" helplessly expostulated Tom.
"My name's Susan, Tom Spade, an' I'll have you call me by it or not at all.If thar's one thing I hate on this earth it's a 'dear' in the mouth of a married man that ought to know better.
I'd every bit as lief you'd shoot a lizard at me, an' you ain't jest found it out.If you think I'm the kind of person to git any satisfaction out of improper speeches you were never mo' mistaken in yo' life; an' I kin p'int out to you right now that I ain't never heard one of them words yit that I ain't had to pay for it.
A 'dear' the mo' is mighty apt to mean a bucket of water the less.Oh, you can't turn my head with yo' soft tricks, Tom Spade.
I'm a respectable woman, as my mother was befo' me, an' I don't want familiar doin's from any man, alive or dead.The woman who does, whether she be married or single, ain't no better than a female--that's my opinion!"She paused to draw breath, and Tom was quick to take advantage of the intermission."Good Lord, Mr.Christopher, those darn young fools are at it agin! " he exclaimed, darting toward the adjoining room.
With a stride, Christopher pushed past him and, opening the door, stopped uncertainly upon the threshold.
At the first glance he saw that the trouble was between Will and Fred Turner, and that Will, because of his slighter weight, had got very much the worst of the encounter.The boy stood now, trembling with anger and bleeding at the mouth, beside an overturned table, while Fred--a stout, brawny fellow--was busily pummelling his shoulders.
"You're a sneakin', puny-livered liar, that's what you are!"finished Turner with a vengeance.
Christopher walked leisurely across the room.
"And you're another," he observed in a quiet voice--the voice of his courtly father, which always came to him in moments of white heat."You are exactly that--a sneaking, puny-livered liar." His manner was so courteous that it came as a surprise when he struck out from the shoulder and felled Fred as easily as he might have knocked over a wooden tenpin."You really must learn better manners," he remarked coolly, looking down upon him.
Then he wiped his brow on his blue shirt-sleeve and called for a glass of beer.
Chapter III.Mrs.Blake Speaks her Mind on Several Matters Breakfast was barely over the next morning when Jim Weatherby appeared at the kitchen door carrying a package of horseshoe nails and a small hammer.
