Edith tossed her head and went on her way for chips.
"You don't believe it, but I've warned you," declared Mrs. Blakely. "But Clytie, here"—she rambled on—"is goin' to ketch some rich feller and marry young. Not too young, though; honey, promise me that."
The shanghai-like Clytie looked a long way from matrimony as she leaned against the house endeavoring to interlace her toes.
"And me"—Mrs. Blakely beamed in anticipation—"I'm goin' to fall heir to a large fortune. Must be yoah pa's brother what cans aigs up in Wichita, Edie."
Mrs. Blakely rose slowly, in sections as it seemed, and followed Edith into the kitchen where the rattle of the stove told of preparations for the tardy dinner.
Bedlam broke loose with the waning of the temporary shyness of the little Blakelys. Some now beat upon the side of the house with clubs, jarring down the little that remained of the chinking. They yelled, they sang, they quarreled, and there was a sufficient number to keep at least one stiff fight going all the time.
