When she asked for codfish, for supper, he grunted, “What d’you want that darned old dry stuff for?”

“I like it!”

“Punk!  Guess the doc can afford something better than that.  Try some of the new wienies we got in.  Swell.  The Haydocks use ’em.”

She exploded.  “My dear young man, it is not your duty to instruct me in housekeeping, and it doesn’t particularly concern me what the Haydocks condescend to approve!”

He was hurt.  He hastily wrapped up the leprous fragment of fish; he gaped as she trailed out.  She lamented, “I shouldn’t have spoken so.  He didn’t mean anything.  He doesn’t know when he is being rude.”

Her repentance was not proof against Uncle Whittier when she stopped in at his grocery for salt and a package of safety matches.  Uncle Whittier, in a shirt collarless and soaked with sweat in a brown streak down his back, was whining at a clerk, “Come on now, get a hustle on and lug that pound cake up to Mis’ Cass’s.  Some folks in this town think a storekeeper ain’t got nothing to do but chase out ’phone-orders. . . .  Hello, Carrie.  That dress you got on looks kind of low in the neck to me.  May be decent and modest—­I suppose I’m old-fashioned—­but I never thought much of showing the whole town a woman’s bust!  Hee, hee, hee! . . .  Afternoon, Mrs. Hicks.  Sage?  Just out of it.  Lemme sell you some other spices.  Heh?” Uncle Whittier was nasally indignant “Certainly!  Got plenty other spices jus’ good as sage for any purp’se whatever!  What’s the matter with—­well, with allspice?” When Mrs. Hicks had gone, he raged, “Some folks don’t know what they want!”

“Sweating sanctimonious bully—­my husband’s uncle!” thought Carol.

She crept into Dave Dyer’s.  Dave held up his arms with, “Don’t shoot!  I surrender!” She smiled, but it occurred to her that for nearly five years Dave had kept up this game of pretending that she threatened his life.

As she went dragging through the prickly-hot street she reflected that a citizen of Gopher Prairie does not have jests—­he has a jest.  Every cold morning for five winters Lyman Cass had remarked, “Fair to middlin’ chilly—­get worse before it gets better.”  Fifty times had Ezra Stowbody informed the public that Carol had once asked, “Shall I indorse this check on the back?” Fifty times had Sam Clark called to her, “Where’d you steal that hat?” Fifty times had the mention of Barney Cahoon, the town drayman, like a nickel in a slot produced from Kennicott the apocryphal story of Barney’s directing a minister, “Come down to the depot and get your case of religious books—­they’re leaking!”

She came home by the unvarying route.  She knew every house-front, every street-crossing, every billboard, every tree, every dog.  She knew every blackened banana-skin and empty cigarette-box in the gutters.  She knew every greeting.  When Jim Howland stopped and gaped at her there was no possibility that he was about to confide anything but his grudging, “Well, haryuh t’day?”