Free The Grub-And-Stakers Move a Mountain by Charlotte MacLeod, Alisa Craig Page B

ruined sneakers in favor of neat brown boots.
    Then she put her raincoat back on, picked up her handbag containing the fateful bunch of keys, loaded Hazel aboard, and again headed Old Faithful Poppyward. On this occasion it was not the daughter but the man of the house who answered the door. His wife, he informed Miss Henbit with no appearance of pleasure, was upstairs asleep.
    “I do hope she’ll feel better in the morning,” said Dittany, handing over the keys. “When she wakes up, would you mind giving her these and telling her I managed reasonably well, all things considered. Oh, and-er-would you just mention that I’d rather not have her tell anybody who took her place?”
    “Why not?” he growled, eyeing the keys suspiciously.
    “Well, you see,” Dittany floundered, “I’d-er-as soon not have anybody-er-know.”
    “If you mean your lawful wedded husband why don’t you say so?” Mr. Poppy exploded. “What you mean is, if he was to find out you been goin’ around to other people’s houses instead of stayin’ home where a wife belongs an’ havin’ a hot supper ready for him when he comes off work as was duly stated in the marriage vows when I took Mrs. Poppy for better or worse, which is worse I’m gettin’ these days since she took a notion to have a career like Glorious Sternum an’ the rest of them Commie pinko women’s libbers, he’d be as ticked off as I am and I for one wouldn’t blame him!” Mr. Poppy whacked the ringful of keys on the palm of his other hand for emphasis, sustained a minor flesh wound, and glared at Dittany as though it were all her fault.
    “Well, no, I didn’t mean my husband,” Dittany made the mistake of trying to explain. “I don’t have one, but I do run a business of my own. If word got round that I’d gone out cleaning, my clients might begin to think-well, you know how it is.”
    “I know how it is,” roared Mr. Poppy, “and I DON’T LIKE HOW
    IT is!” He glowered at Dittany a while longer, then asked in a slightly less belligerent tone, “What kind o’ business?”
    “I’m a secretarial service.”
    “Blah! I bet my wife makes out better than you do.”
    “I know she does,” Dittany confessed. “I’m one of the people she cleans for.”
    “Not anymore you ain’t. I’ve had it, see? I’m puttin’ my foot down. Coin’ out an’ inhalin’ other people’s germs an’ gettin’ herself laid up when she promised faithful she’d make me a good pot o’ pea soup like my mother used to. Ruinin’ her health for a bunch of ingrates!”
    He started to whack the keys again, thought better of it, and slammed the door in her face instead. Sighing, Dittany went back to the car where Hazel was waiting.
    “How did you make out?”
    “Don’t ask!” Needless to say, Dittany told her anyway. “So I’ve lost a housekeeper on top of everything else. Honestly, Hazel, I don’t know what I’m going to do if Mr. Poppy doesn’t simmer down. I can’t cope with that big place and earn a living too. I couldn’t cope even if I didn’t have to work. Housekeeping to me is as a mystery sealed whence no man knoweth the key thereof.”
    “You’re getting to talk like Arethusa Monk.”
    “Oh yeah? Wait till you hear the kind of language Arethusa uses when she finds out. Mrs. Poppy works for her too.”
    “Don’t borrow trouble, eh? I daresay Mrs. Poppy can straighten out Mr. Poppy once she gets her voice back.”
    “Anyhow, he didn’t have to call me an ingrate,” Dittany muttered.
    “I only hope Joshua doesn’t come all over male chauvinist, too, and put his foot down on Samantha.”
    “How could he?” Hazel pointed out reasonably. “He’s half a head shorter than she is, so it would be physically impossible.
    Anyway, he’s probably off in his study pasting together a split atom or whatever it is they do.”
    As to the duties and occupations of a professor of physics, Hazel might be pardoned for showing a certain vagueness. As to his