A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

at all, but who having begun life in their back yard, continued as
everything else continued when once established at the Flathers',
for the simple reason that no one ever took the trouble to change the
existing disorder of things.
As Myrtella sailed wrathfully into port and docked at the door-step,
Maria looked up with a gasp:
“Law! Myrtella, you gimme a turn. I forgot this here was your afternoon
off. I thought sure you was Sheeley's rent man.”
“Sheeley's?” repeated Myrtella, her curiosity getting the better of her
temper, as she removed an old shoe and a flour sifter from the nearest
chair and sat down.
“Yes, he's our landlord, but he gits another man to collect. Guess you
heard about his gittin' shot?”
“Read every word that's been printed. Is he goin' to die?”
“Not him. Ain't nothin' the matter with him 'ceptin' his eye is blowed
out. My uncle, back home, got both his eyes--You, Chick!” this to an
invisible presence that manifested itself only through a shower of
pebbles that followed in the wake of a fleeing cat. “Go up to the
saloon, Chick, and tell yer Pappy he'll have to come on home. Yer Aunt
'Tella's here.”
“Don't look like he grows a inch a year,” said Myrtella thoughtfully,
watching him depart.
“That there Mrs. Ivy's been after me agin to send him to the Widows and
Orphans' Home. She says she can git him in, and they'll learn him to
read and write.”
“Well, he ain't goin'! I guess as long as I'm a payin' the grocery
bills, I got a right to say who'll eat the food! What's that you are
hidin'?”
Maria, who had been attempting to remove something surreptitiously from
the table, looked apologetic.
“It's one of them plaster casts, I'll be bound,” Myrtella continued. “I
might 'a' knowed you'd git the mate to the other one, and not a square
inch of space in the house to set it on! What did you give fer it?”
Mrs. Flathers withdrew her apron, and tenderly dusted the highly colored
features of an Indian squaw, whose head-feathers reposed upon her arm.
Then she placed it on a corner of the stove where its imposing dignity
produced a momentary impression upon even the flinty Myrtella.
“How much?” she demanded heartlessly.
“A quarter down, and ten cents a week.” Maria sighed. “'Twouldn't be no
trouble at all if it wasn't for Phineas spending so much car-fare going
to church and that bow-legged, onery rent-man, that comes sneakin' round
here every week, acting like poor people just kep' money settin' 'round
in jars waitin' fer the likes of him!”
Maria's hatred of the rent man was the one emotion that seemed to be
left in her withered bosom. To baffle him, to evade him, to anticipate
his coming and be away from home, constituted the chief object of her
existence.
A bang of the gate announced the arrival of the head of the household,
which was promptly followed by the strains of a hymn cheerfully whistled