"Oh, goodness, I suppose he's scolding about something," sighed the
girl. "There always is something to find fault about. I hope Bob will
keep his temper, because I want him to be able to take me to the
vendue this afternoon."

Joseph Peabody came into breakfast in a surly frame of mind, a
mental condition faithfully reflected in the attitude of his hired
man who jerked back his chair and subsided into it with a grunt.
Betty's irrepressible sense of humor pictured the dog (the Peabodys
kept no dog because the head of the house considered that dogs ate
more than they were worth) tucking his tail between his legs and
slinking under the table as a port in the storm. The dog, she
decided, glancing at Mrs. Peabody's timid face, was all that was
needed to set the seal on a scene of ill-nature and discomfort.

Bob, when he came in late with the milk pails, wore a black scowl
and set his burden down with a crash that spilled some of the
precious fluid on to the oilcloth top of the side table.

"Be a little more careful with that," growled Mr. Peabody, taking
the last piece of ham, which left nothing but the fried potatoes and
bread for Bob's breakfast. "The cows are going dry fast enough
without you trying to waste the little they give."

Bob, looking as though he could cheerfully fling the contents of
both pails over his employer, sullenly began to pump water into the
hand basin. This habit of "washing up" at the kitchen sink while a
meal was in progress always thoroughly disgusted Betty, and Bob
usually performed his ablutions on the back porch. This morning he
was evidently too cross to consider a second person's feelings.