Free High Time by Mary Lasswell

cordially on the head with a pie-pan.
    ‘Tug!’ Myrna reiterated firmly, kicking her brother where she thought it would do the most good.
    ‘Gawd!’ Mrs. Feeley moaned. ‘We sure went an’ done it this time!’ She rolled back to the kitchen in search of a beer.
    Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham beat her to the icebox. They were gulping down beer and rocking from side to side.
    ‘How the hell’d they get here?’ Mrs. Rasmussen wanted to know.
    ‘I’m afraid we were carried away by an excess of patriotism,’ Miss Tinkham said ruefully.
    Mrs. Rasmussen went over to the pallet on the floor where the children had been dumped with scant ceremony the night before. She passed an experienced hand over the quilts.
    ‘Who’d ’a’ thought it? They’re house-broke!’ she murmured in amazement.
    ‘My head feels like the little men with the ’lectric riveters was doin’ their worst right inside of it!’ Mrs. Feeley groaned. ‘We sure tied one on last night, didn’t we?’
    ‘We was full o’ wild moose milk, all right!’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.
    ‘The milk o’ human kindness has kinda soured a little bit this mornin’, though,’ Mrs. Feeley sighed, cocking a weather eye in the direction of the bathroom. ‘What in the name o’ God we gonna do with ’em when the twins gets here?’
    Pierpont and Myrna had evidently finished their naval maneuvers—they were now screaming ‘God Bless America’ at the top of their lungs and beating time against the side of the tub with Mrs. Rasmussen’s treasured red coffee-pot.
    ‘There ain’t no thin’ for it, I guess,’ the owner of the red coffee-pot said, girding up her loins. ‘They gotta be fed an’ then they gotta be took off somewheres. Winston an’ Franklin wouldn’t sleep a wink with that rumpus goin’ on!’
    ‘What was we thinkin’ of!’ Mrs. Feeley fumed.
    In the normal course of events, the ladies could have gone back to bed and slept off their ills, thanks to the cherubic dispositions of the twins. The twins were gentlemen: they understood the importance of sleep the morning after. But Pierpont and Myrna reminded Miss Tinkham of a character in Shakespeare who had murdered sleep—Mac—something-or-other; the way her head was buzzing she couldn’t think of it right at the moment.
    Mrs. Rasmussen got a grip on herself and scrambled two eggs. Then she made toast. After setting the food in the warming oven, she took a large towel from a drawer and charged into the bathroom.
    ‘Get out!’ she ordered crisply.
    Pierpont and Myrna ignored the order.
    ‘Get outa that tub!’ Mrs. Rasmussen’s mouth was very firm.
    Pierpont held his nose and stuck his head under the water. Then he wiggled his feet at Mrs. Rasmussen. Mrs. Rasmussen’s muscular arm reached out with smoothness and precision and grabbed Pierpont by the scruff of his scrawny neck. He fought and wriggled, but she held him fast in the thick towel. Without haste she sat down on the toilet seat and calmly and methodically blistered Pierpont’s bony posterior. Myrna climbed out of the tub in a slippery flash and was on Mrs. Rasmussen biting and scratching like an angry cat.
    ‘Ol’ squack! Ol’ squack!’ she screamed.
    Mrs. Rasmussen held Pierpont under one arm and picked Myrna up with the other. Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham were standing in the door watching the fracas.
    ‘Guess you need a mite o’ somethin’ to start your circulation goin’ after bein’ so long in the cold water,’ she announced calmly, and administered a few sharp slaps where Myrna needed them most.
    ‘Would you be so kindly as to hand me their dirty, stinkin’ clothes, Mrs. Feeley? We ain’t got nothin’ else to put on right now!’ Mrs. Feeley brought in the scant garments and took up her post in the door.
    ‘Now you put ’em on,’ she said, handing each child the right clothes. ‘On the double!’
    Astonished, Pierpont and Myrna never took their eyes off Mrs. Rasmussen. But they put their clothes