"Mis' Squeerington!" she ventured finally. "I hope you ain't fergot
that it's Saturday mornin' an' you'd orter row the grocery man. He's a
cortion, that's what he is, a-sendin' us Mis' Ivy's ribs, an' Mis'
Logan's liver. It ain't a decent way to treat a old customer, an' he
orter be told so. There never was a grocery man that was born into the
world that didn't have to be rowed! They expect it, they look fer it,
an' when they don't get it they feel it."
"I can't 'row' people, Myrtella; I don't know how," said Miss Lady
listlessly.
"I'll learn you. You've picked up a lot more already than anybody
would 'a' supposed you would when you first come. But one thing you
ain't learned. When a lady goes to smilin' over the telephone, an'
tellin' the butcher that she don't know one cut from another but
she'll trust him to send her a nice piece, you kin count on it she's
goin' to git a gristle. Compliments an' smiles may git some things,
but it takes rowin' an' back-talk to git a good beefsteak!"
"I think I'll send you to the grocery to-day, Myrtella,--it--it may
rain."
"It ain't goin' to rain before noon," Myrtella said authoritatively,
in a tone that indicated her intention of stopping it immediately if
it showed any intention of doing so.
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