Brown arose from the bench and sauntered to the door.

"I washed them," he said. "I judged that you would have to if I didn't,
and it seemed the least I could do, everything considered."

"Sho! You washed the dishes, hey? Where'd you put 'em?"

"In the closet there. That's where they belong, isn't it?"

Seth went to the closet, took a plate from the pile and inspected it.

"Um!" he grunted, turning the plate over, "that ain't such a bad job.
Not so all-fired bad, for a green hand. What did you wash 'em with?"

"A cloth I found hanging by the sink."

"I see. Yes, yes. And you wiped 'em on--what?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't see any towels in sight, except
that one on the door; and, for various reasons, I judged that wasn't a
dish towel."

"Good judgment. 'Tisn't. Go on."

"So I hunted around, and in the closet in the parlor, or living room, or
whatever you call it, I found a whole stack of things that looked like
towels; so I used one of those."

"Is this it?" Seth picked up a damp and bedraggled cloth from the table.