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A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered. "Well," said he, "Mag's dead." "What?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread. "Mag's dead," repeated the man. "Deh hell she is," said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee she began to weep. "I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she weared worsted boots," moaned she.
She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith," she cried, raising her streaming eyes.
An' when Ah get home, Ah find two, t'ree, five, mebbe four hole in mah arm more beeg as mah t'umb." Pete stopped dramatically; his little sparkling black eyes traveled quickly from one face to another to note the effect he had made. Mr.
Peaslee's spirits were rising; the grand jury could not believe such a "passel of lies" only, only was one of those holes "beeg as mah t'umb" made, perchance, by a marble? "That's a mighty moving narrative," commented Sampson, dryly. "Did I understand you to say that you were hit in the head or the arm?" "Bose of it," averred Pete, without winking.
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