rendered her, as a rule, extremely monosyllabic, not to say silent,
vouchsafed no comment upon the contents of the epistle, and after a few
minutes Aunt Mary herself took the field:

"Now, what do you suppose possessed that boy to shoot at a cook?" she
asked, regarding the letter with a portentous frown. "Cooks are so awful
hard to get nowadays. I don’t see why he didn’t shoot a tramp if he had to
shoot somethin’."

"He wa’n’t tryin’ to shoot a cook, ’pears like," then cried
Lucinda—Lucinda’s voice, be it said, _en passant_, was of that sibilant
and penetrating timbre which is best illustrated in the accents of a
steamfitter’s file—"’pears like he was tryin’ for a cat."

"Not a bat," said her mistress correctively; "it was a cat. You look at
this letter an’ you’ll see. And, anyway, how could a man shootin’ at a cat
hit a cook?—not ’nless she was up a tree birds’-nestin’ after owls’ eggs.
You don’t seem to pay much attention to what I read to you, Lucinda; only
I should think your commonsense would help you out some when it comes to a
boy you’ve known from the time he could walk, an’ a strange cook. But,
anyhow, that’s neither here nor there. The question that bothers me is,
what’s to pay with this damage suit? I think myself five hundred dollars
is too much for any cook’s arm. A cook ain’t in no such vital need of two
arms. If she has to shut the door of the oven while she’s stirrin’
somethin’ on the top of the stove, she can easy kick it to with her foot.
It won’t be for long, anyway, and I’m a great believer in making the best
of things when you’ve got to."

Lucinda screwed up her face and made no comment. Lucinda’s face in repose
was a cross between a monkey’s and a peanut; screwed up, it was