Paul Prescott’s Charge. Chapter 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22
XVII.
BEN’S PRACTICAL JOKE.
MRS. MUDGE was in the back room, bending over a tub. It was washing-day, and she was particularly busy. She was a driving, bustling woman, and, whatever might be her faults of temper, she was at least industrious and energetic. Had Mr. Mudge been equally so, they would have been better off in a worldly point of view. But her husband was constitutionally lazy, and was never disposed to do more than was needful.
Mrs. Mudge was in a bad humor that morning. One of the cows had got into the garden through a gap in the fence, and made sad havoc among the cabbages. Now if Mrs. Mudge had a weakness, it was for cabbages. She was excessively fond of them, and had persuaded her husband to set out a large number of plants from which she expected a large crop. They were planted in one corner of the garden, adjoining a piece of land, which, since mowing, had been used for pasturing the cows. There was a weak place in the fence separating the two inclosures, and this Mrs. Mudge had requested her husband to attend to. He readily promised this, and Mrs. Mudge supposed it done, until that same morning, her sharp eyes had detected old Brindle munching the treasured cabbages with a provoking air of enjoyment. The angry lady seized a broom, and repaired quickly to the scene of devastation. Brindle scented the danger from afar, and beat a disorderly retreat, trampling down the cabbages which she had hitherto spared. Leaping over the broken fence, she had just cleared the gap as the broom-handle, missing her, came forcibly down upon the rail, and was snapped in sunder by the blow.
Here was a new vexation. Brindle had not only escaped scot-free, but the broom, a new one, bought only the week before, was broken.
“It’s a plaguy shame,” said Mrs. Mudge, angrily. “There’s my best broom broken; cost forty-two cents only last week.”
She turned and contemplated the scene of devastation. This yielded her little consolation.
“At least thirty cabbages destroyed by that scamp of a cow,” she exclaimed in a tone bordering on despair. “I wish I’d a hit her. If I’d broken my broom over her back I wouldn’t a cared so much. And it’s all Mudge’s fault. He’s the most shiftless man I ever see. I’ll give him a dressing down, see if I don’t.”
Mrs. Mudge’s eyes snapped viciously, and she clutched the relics of the broom with a degree of energy which rendered it uncertain what sort of a dressing down she intended for her husband.
Ten minutes after she had re-entered the kitchen, the luckless man made his appearance. He wore his usual look, little dreaming of the storm that awaited him.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Mrs. Mudge, grimly.
“What’s amiss, now?” inquired Mudge, for he understood her look.
“What’s amiss?” blazed Mrs. Mudge. “I’ll let you know. Do you see this?”
She seized the broken broom and flourished it in his face.
“Broken your broom, have you? You must have been careless.”
“Careless, was I?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically. “Yes, of course, it’s always I that am in fault.”
“You haven’t broken it over the back of any of the paupers, have you?” asked her husband, who, knowing his helpmeet’s infirmity of temper, thought it possible she might have indulged in such an amusement.
“If I had broken it over anybody’s back it would have been yours,” said the lady.
“Mine! what have I been doing?”
“It’s what you haven’t done,” said Mrs. Mudge. “You’re about the laziest and most shiftless man I ever came across.”
“Come, what does all this mean?” demanded Mr. Mudge, who was getting a little angry in his turn.
“I’ll let you know. Just look out of that window, will you?”
“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, innocently, “I don’t see anything in particular.”
“You don’t!” said Mrs. Mudge with withering sarcasm. “Then you’d better put on your glasses. If you’d been here quarter of an hour ago, you’d have seen Brindle among the cabbages.”
“Did she do any harm?” asked Mr. Mudge, hastily.