As he entered the Phipps’ gate he met some one coming down the path toward it.  That some one, it developed, was no less a person than Mr. Horatio Pulcifer.  Raish and Galusha had not encountered each other for some time, weeks, in fact, and Mr. Bangs expected the former’s greeting to be exuberant and effusive.  His shoulders and his spirit were alike shrinking in anticipation.

But Raish did not shout when he saw him, did not even shake hands, to say nothing of thumping the little man upon the back.  The broad and rubicund face of East Wellmouth’s leading politician and dealer in real estate wore not a grin but a frown, and when he and Galusha came together at the gate he did not speak.  Galusha spoke first, which was unusual; very few people meeting Mr. Horatio Pulcifer were afforded the opportunity of speaking first.

“Ah—­good-morning, Mr. Pulcifer,” said Galusha, endeavoring to open the gate.

“Huh!” grunted Raish, jerking the gate from Mr. Bangs’ hand and pushing it somewhat violently into the Bangs’ waistcoat.  “Mornin’.”

“It is a nice—­ah—­cool day, isn’t it?” observed Galusha, backing from the gateway in order to give Horatio egress.  Mr. Pulcifer’s answer was irrelevant and surprising.

“Say,” he demanded, turning truculently upon the speaker, “ain’t women hell?”

Galusha was, naturally, somewhat startled.

“I—­I beg your pardon?” he stammered.

“I say ain’t women hell?  Hey?  Ain’t they, now?”

Galusha rubbed his chin.

“Well,” he said, doubtfully, “I presume in—­ah—­certain instances they—­ My experience has been limited, but—­”

“Humph!  Say, they make me sick, most of ’em.  They haven’t any more business sense than a hen, the heft of ’em ain’t.  Go into a deal with their eyes open and then, when it don’t turn out to suit ’em, lay down and squeal.  Yes, sir, squeal.”

“Ah—­I see.  Yes, yes, of course.  Squeal—­yes.  The—­the hens, you mean.”

“Hens?  No, women.  They make me sick, I tell you. . . .  And now a lot of dum fools are goin’ to give ’em the right to vote!  Gosh!”

He strode off along the road to the village.  Galusha wonderingly gazed after him, shook his head, and then moved slowly up the path to the house.  Primmie opened the door for him.  Her eyes were snapping.

“Hello, Mr. Bangs!” she said.  “I ’most wisht he’d drop down dead and then freeze to death in a snowbank, that’s what I wish.”

Galusha blinked.

“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed.  “Of whom are you speaking?”

“That everlastin’ Raish Pulcifer.  I never did like him, and now if he’s comin’ around here makin’ her cry.”

“Eh?  Making her cry?”

“Sshh!  She’ll hear you.  Makin’ Miss Martha cry.  She’s up in her room cryin’ now, I’ll bet you on it.  And he’s responsible. . . .  Yes’m, I’m comin’.  Don’t say nothin’ to her that I told you, will you, Mr. Bangs?”