"Oh, I know what happens!" I cried. "She sits too heavy! And squashes
'em perfectly flat!--There was a hen," I cried. "Her name was Lizzie!
She was a good hen! But childless! The Grocer gave us some day-old
chicks to put under her! But when we went out to the nest the next
morning to see 'em--they couldn't have been flatter if they'd been
pressed in the Bible!--My Brother Carol cried,--I cried,--my Mother----"
"I don't care at all who cried," said the Lady. It was true. She didn't.
All she cared was to look at our Uncle Peter. The look was a stern look.
"And are you trying to imply, Mr.--Mr.--?"
"Merredith," said our Uncle Peter. "Percival Merredith.--'Uncle Peter'
for short."
"Mr. Merredith," repeated the Lady coldly. "Are you trying to imply that
my----step-son looks as though he had been pressed in a--a--Bible?"