"Which means I'm a story-teller?" Myrtella squared herself for action.
"Oh, come on along," coaxed Phineas; "no harm's meant. Go on an' tell
us what you left fer."
"Who said I'd left? Puttin' words in my mouth I never thought of
utterin'! I ain't left, and what's more I ain't going to. I got a good
place."
Phineas whistled an aggravatingly attenuated note of surprise: "The
lady you are working for must be a deef-mute."
"She is. The same as you'll be some day. She's been dead three years."
The triumph with which she made this announcement put a momentary
quietus on Phineas, and enabled her to proceed:
"It's a widower gentleman with three children that I'm cookin' for,
and I ain't set eyes on one of 'em except at meal times since I hired
to 'em. Queerington's their names, out on College Street, right around
the corner from the Immanuel Church. He's a teacher or something, one
of them bookwormy men, whose head never pays no attention to what the
rest of him is doing. 'Take charge,' said he, 'of everything, do the
ordering, and cooking, and don't bother me with nothing.'"
"But does he bother you?" put in Phineas astutely; "that's the real
point.
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