"Shay, I never took them bottles outa the stack," Mose looked up to
protest solemnly. "Dick never told me about 'em, neither. Dick tol'
me--" tapping Ford's arm with his finger for every word, "--'at there
was aigs down there, for m' mince-meat." He stopped suddenly and goggled
up at Ford. "Shay, yuh don't put aigs in--mince-meat," he informed him
earnestly. "Not a darn aig! That's what Dick tol' me--aigs for m'
mince-meat. Oh, I knowed right off what he meant, all right," he
explained proudly. "He didn't wanta come right out 'n' shay what it
was--an' I--got--the--aigs!"
"Yes--how many--eggs?" Ford held himself rigidly quiet.
"Two quart--aigs!" Mose laughed at the joke. "I wisht," he added
pensively, "the hens'd all lay them kinda aigs. I'd buy up all the
shickens in--the whole worl'." He gazed raptly upon the vision the words
conjured. "Gee! Quart aigs--'n' all the shickens in the worl' layin'
reg'lar!"
"Have you got any left?"
"No--honest. Used 'em all up--for m' mince-meat!"
Ford knew he was lying. His eyes searched the untidy tables and the
corners filled with bags and boxes. Mose was a good cook, but his ideas
of order were vague, and his system of housekeeping was the simple one
of leaving everything where he had last been using it, so that it might
be handy when he wanted it again.
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