"Everybody says you're going to give solid gold prizes and that even
your booby prize will be handsomer than the first prize was at Mrs.
Detwiller's."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Budlong in a tone that sounded just like the
spelling.

Mrs. Budlong's wealth seemed to be accepted as a sort of municipal
legacy. All Carthage assumed to own it in community, and to enjoy it
with her. Her walls rang with the hilarity of her neighbors. But her
laughter took on more and more the sound of icicles snapping from the
eaves of a shed.

She became the logical candidate for all the chief offices in clubs and
societies and circles. She suddenly found herself seven or eight
presidents and at least eleven chairwomen. The richest woman in town
heretofore was Mrs. Foster Herpers, wife of the pole and shaft
manufacturer. He owned about half of the real estate in town, but his
wife had to distill expenses out of him in pennies. With a profound
sigh of relief she resigned all her honors in Mrs. Budlong's favor.

Being president chiefly meant lending one's house for meetings as well
as one's china and tea and sandwiches, and being five dollars ahead of
anybody else in every subscription. Mrs. Budlong was panic-stricken
with her own success, for there is nothing harder to handle than a
dam-break of prosperity.

Worse yet, Mr. Budlong was ceasing to be the meek thing of yore. Every
day was the first of the month with him.