But mother's
death is a little uncertain, just yet."
A toothless chuckle came from the adjoining room. Mrs.
Williamson had been an interested listener to the
conversation.
"Order my coffin, Ducker, on your way down, but never
mind the flowers, they might not keep," she shrilled
after him as he beat a hasty retreat.
When Mr. Ducker, crestfallen and humiliated, re-entered
the Mercury office a few moments later, he was watched
by two twinkling Irish eyes, that danced with unholy
merriment at that good man's discomfiture. They belonged
to Ignatius Benedicto McSorley, the editor of the other
paper.
But Mrs. Ducker was hopeful. A friend of hers in Winnipeg
had already a house in view for them, and Mrs. Ducker
had decided the church they would attend when the session
opened, and what day she would have, and many other
important things that it is well to have one's mind made
up on and not leave to the last. Maudie Ducker had been
taken into the secret, and began to feel sorry for the
other little girls whose papas were contented to let them
live always in such a pokey little place as Millford.
Maudie also began to dream dreams of sweeping in upon
the Millford people in flowing robes and waving plumes
and sparkling diamonds, in a gorgeous red automobile.
Wilford Ducker only of the Ducker family was not taken
into the secret. He was too young, his mother said, to
understand the change.
The nomination day was drawing near, which had something
to do with the date of Maudie Ducker's party.
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