“Um _mad_. And the Choolies are mad--they're mad--they're mad--”
Oliver looked at her a moment but was much too wise to smile.
“They aren't mad at you, but they're mad at Motha and Aunt Elsie and Ro
and Dickie and oh--evvabody!” Jane Ellen stated graciously.
“Well, as long as they aren't mad at me--Any letters for me, Jane
Ellen?” “Yash.”
Oliver found them on the desk, looked them over, once, twice. A letter
from Peter Piper. Two advertisements. A letter with a French stamp.
Nothing from Nancy.
He went out on the porch again to read his letters, to the accompaniment
of Jane Ellen's untirable chant. “The Choolies are mad” buzzed in his
ears, “The Choolies, the Choolies are mad.” For a moment he saw the
Choolies; they were all women like Mrs. Ellicott but they stood up in
front of him taller than the sky and one of them had hidden Nancy away
in her black silk pocket--put her somewhere, where he never would see
her again.
“Ollie, you look at me sternaly--_don't_ look at me so sternaly,
Ollie--the Choolies aren't mad at you--” said Jane Ellen anxiously. “Fy
do you look at me so sternaly?”
He grinned his best at her. “Sorry, Jane Ellen. But my girl's chucked me
and I've chucked my job--and consequently all _my_ choolies are mad--”