By the
way, Mrs. Shimerda," he said as he turned up the path, "I think we may as
well call it square about the cow."
She started and clutched the rope tighter. Seeing that she did not
understand, grandfather turned back. "You need not pay me anything more;
no more money. The cow is yours."
"Pay no more, keep cow?" she asked in a bewildered tone, her narrow eyes
snapping at us in the sunlight.
"Exactly. Pay no more, keep cow." He nodded.
Mrs. Shimerda dropped the rope, ran after us, and crouching down beside
grandfather, she took his hand and kissed it. I doubt if he had ever been
so much embarrassed before. I was a little startled, too. Somehow, that
seemed to bring the Old World very close.
We rode away laughing, and grandfather said: "I expect she thought we had
come to take the cow away for certain, Jim. I wonder if she would n't have
scratched a little if we'd laid hold of that lariat rope!"
Our neighbors seemed glad to make peace with us. The next Sunday Mrs.
Shimerda came over and brought Jake a pair of socks she had knitted. She
presented them with an air of great magnanimity, saying, "Now you not come
any more for knock my Ambrosch down?"
Jake laughed sheepishly. "I don't want to have no trouble with Ambrosch.
If he'll let me alone, I'll let him alone."
"If he slap you, we ain't got no pig for pay the fine," she said
insinuatingly.
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