“We’ve all been doin’ what we could for these folks,” he says, “but we ain’t been doin’ it real wise. It’s come to my notice that the Haskitts had four different chickens give to ’em last Christmas. What we want to do is to fix up some sort of a organization so’s our chickens won’t lap.” “Well,” says Timothy Toplady, “then let’s organize. That ain’t hard. I move it be done.” It was done, and Silas was made president, like he ever loves to be, and Timothy treasurer, and me secretary, because they could get me to take it. “Now,” says Silas, “let’s get down to work and talk over cases.” “_Cases!_” says Mis’ Toplady, distasteful. “They ain’t got the smallpox, have they? Say _folks_.” “I guess you ain’t very used to Charity societies,” says Silas, tolerant. “Take the Haskitts. They ain’t got a pane o’ glass in their house.” “Nor no wood, much,” says Timothy. “When I went to get the rent the cat was asleep on the cook-stove.” “What rent do they give you, Timothy?” says Silas. “Five dollars,” he says, pursin’ his lips. “That’s only three per cent. on the money. I don’t see how you can afford it.” “I _am_ indulgin’ myself a little,” Timothy admits. “But I been thinkin’ o’ raisin’ it to six. One thing, though; I ain’t give ’em any repairs. If I’d had a six-dollar family in there I’d had to fixed the window-glass and cleaned out the cistern and mended the roof. It about evens itself up.” “Yes,” says Silas, agreeful, “I guess it does. Well, they can have some boxes to burn, out of the store. I’ll take ’em on my list. _You_ can’t go givin’ ’em truck, Timothy. If you do, they’ll come down on to you for repairs. Now the Ricker’s....” Abigail Arnold spoke up. “They’re awful,” she says. “Mis’ Ricker ain’t fit to wash, and the children just show through. Ab’s arm won’t let him work all winter.” “You take him, Silas,” says Timothy. “He’s your own employee.” Silas shakes his head. “He’s been chasin’ me for damages ever since he got hurt,” he says. “Ain’t he goin’ to get any, Silas?” says Mis’ Toplady, pitiful. “Get any?” says Silas. “It was his own fault. He told me a week before about them belts bein’ wore. I told him to lay off till I could fix ’em. But no--he kep’ right on. Said his wife was sick and his bills was eatin’ him up. He ain’t nobody to blame but his own carelessness. I told him to lay off.” I looked over to Mis’ Toplady, and she looked over to me. And I looked at Abigail and at Mis’ Holcomb, and we all looked at each other. Only Mis’ Sykes--she set there listening and looking like her life was just elegant. “Can’t you take that case, Mis’ Toplady?” says Silas. “I’ll go and see them _folks_,” she says, troubled. And I guess us ladies felt troubled, one and all. And so on during all the while we was discussing the Doles and the Hennings and the Bettses and the rest. And when the meeting was over we four hung around the stove, and Mis’ Sykes too.