ks are so awful
hard to get nowadays. I don't see why he didn't shoot a tramp if he had to
shoot somethin'."

"He wa'n't tryin' to shoot a cook, 'pears like," then cried
Lucinda--Lucinda's voice, be it said, _en passant_, was of that sibilant
and penetrating timbre which is best illustrated in the accents of a
steamfitter's file--"'pears like he was tryin' for a cat."

"Not a bat," said her mistress correctively; "it was a cat. You look at
this letter an' you'll see. And, anyway, how could a man shootin' at a cat
hit a cook?--not 'nless she was up a tree birds'-nestin' after owls' eggs.
You don't seem to pay much attention to what I read to you, Lucinda; only
I should think your commonsense would help you out some when it comes to a
boy you've known from the time he could walk, an' a strange cook. But,
anyhow, that's neither here nor there. The question that bothers me is,
what's to pay with this damage suit? I think myself five hundred dollars
is too much for any cook's arm. A cook ain't in no such vital need of two
arms. If she has to shut the door of the oven while she's stirrin'
somethin' on the top of the stove, she can easy kick it to with her foot.
It won't be for long, anyway, and I'm a great believer in making the best
of things when you've got to."

Lucinda screwed up her face and made no comment. Lucinda's face in repose
was a cross between a monkey's and a peanut; screwed up, it was
particularly awful, and always exasperated her mistress.

"Well, why don't you say somethin', Lucinda? I ain't askin' your advice,
but, all the same, you can say anything if you've got a mind to."

"I ain't got a mind to say anythin'," the faithful maid rejoined.

"I guess you hit the nail on the head that time," said Aunt Mary, without
any unnecessary malevolence concealed behind her sarcasm; then she re-read
the note and frowned afresh.

"Five hundred dollars is too much," she said again. "I'm going to write to
Mr. Stebbins an' tell him so to-night. He can compromise on two hundred
and fifty, just as well as not. Get me some paper and my desk, Lucinda.
Now get a spryness about you."

Lucinda laid aside her work and forthwith got a spryness about her,
bringing her mistress' writing-desk with commendable alacrity. Aunt Mary
took the writing-desk and wrote fiercely for some time, to the end that
she finally wrote most of the fierceness out of herself.

"After all, boys will be boys," she said, as she sealed her letter, "a