“I wouldn’t count on me being innocent, Mrs. Brown,” said the boy. “My mother says—” “Shut up, Tom, good’s good! You’ll be there on my right hand, boy.” “Yes’m,” said Tom. “If, that is,” said Elmira, “I can live through the night with this lady making wax dummies of me—shoving rusty needles through the very heart and soul of them. If you find a great big fig in my bed all shriveled up come sunrise, Tom, you’ll know who picked the fruit in the vineyard. And look to see Mrs. Goodwater president till she’s a hundred and ninety-five years old.”
