Ten minutes later my hostess emerged with recovered aplomb. She had
donned a skirt and a flowered blouse, and dusted powder upon and about
her sunburned and rather blobby nose. Her crinkly gray hair had been
drawn to a knot at the back of her grenadier's head. Her widely set eyes
gleamed with the smile of her broad and competent mouth.

"Tea in one minute," she promised more than audibly as she bustled into
the kitchen. It really came in five, and beside the tray she pleasantly
relaxed. The cups were filled and a breach was made upon the cake she
had brought. The tea was advertising a sufficient strength, yet she now
raised the dynamics of her own portion.

"I'll just spill a hooker of this here Scotch into mine," she said, and
then, as she did even so: "My lands! Ain't I the cynical old Kate! And
silly! Letting them boys upset me that way with that there fool song."
She decanted a saucerful of the re-enforced tea and raised it to her
pursed lips. "Looking at you!" she murmured cavernously and drank deep.
She put the saucer back where nice persons leave theirs at all times.
"Say, it was hot over on that bench to-day. I was getting out that bunch
of bull calves, and all the time here was old Safety First mumbling
round--"

This was rather promising, but I had resolved differently.

"That song," I insinuated. "Of course there are people--"

"You bet there are! I'm one of 'em, too! What that song's done to
me--and to other innocent bystanders in the last couple weeks--"