Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/784

all right, madam. I will get some. We need so much of them—yes, indeed. To tack up all over the walls. Come, George."

The Assistant Painters gather up the pails and brushes, and walk stolidly out of the drawing-room.

Mrs. Tarrant, observing their movements with horror: "But where are you going? Come back! Are you all going?"

The Assistant Painters, together, as before: "Tags, lady, tags."

Mrs. Tarrant, wildly: "But it doesn't take three men to buy one paper of tacks! Let him go alone!"

The Boss Painter, reassuringly: "That's all right, madam, we will come back. But we must have tacks. Yes, indeed. It shall be all finished. Come, George."

He passes out of the hall door, followed closely by one Assistant bearing the pails. The other, who resembles an animated bundle of soiled cloth, is intercepted by Mrs. Tarrant, who implores him: "Why must you go? It's too absurd! Three men for a five-cent paper of tacks! Can't you stay?"

The Assistant Painter, placidly: "Ye must mind der boss, lady. All right. I come again, sure." He slips out of the door, nodding at her. "Ve must go how der boss says. Tags, lady, tags!"

Mrs. Tarrant sinks again into the Morris chair, staring hopelessly at the wall. Suddenly the hall door is flung open and Mr. Tarrant bursts into the room, exclaiming: "Weren't those our painters I met? What's the matter?"

"They've gone to buy a Paper of Tacks"

Mrs. Tarrant: "Yes, they were. They've gone to buy a paper of tacks."

Mr. Tarrant: "A paper—"

Mrs. Tarrant: "Yes. They must have tacks."

Mr. Tarrant, angrily: "Three men for—"

Mrs. Tarrant, calmly: "I couldn't keep them here by force. There's no use in fussing about it. Perhaps they'll come back—sometime. Did you catch the dray?"

Mr. Tarrant: "No. They'd gone back. I telephoned 'em, though."

Mrs. Tarrant: "Well, maybe they'll get here." Then with an air of patient remonstrance: "Dick dear, if we don't get to work at something, the morning will just have been wasted. Why don't you see what's in the next box?"

Mr. Tarrant, dazed but obedient, reaches up and into the next box, which is covered with newspaper only, and produces a nutmeg-grater and a muffin-ring. He looks plaintively at his wife: "You don't want me to carry these one by one into the kitchen?"

Mrs. Tarrant, reassuringly: "No, indeed, dear. I'm afraid we can't do much, though, even if the things do come later, because the electricity is probably turned off, and I know the gas is—"

Mr. Tarrant: "What do you mean? Why is it?"

Mrs. Tarrant: "Because the last people didn't pay for two months."

Mr. Tarrant, rising to a wrathful height: "And how does that affect me, pray? Is that any of my business?"

Mrs. Tarrant: "So