I fully expected him to snarl out something like he usually does, about us women being frantic to assume responsibility. Instead of that he looked down at us thoughtful: “Well,” says he, “that’s just what I’ve been studying on some. And I was thinking that if you women would cook the stuff, us men would chip in and buy the material. And wouldn’t it be some easier to cook it all in one place? I could let you have the Post Office hall, if you say so.” “Why, Silas,” I says, “Silas ...” And I couldn’t say another word. And it was the rest of ’em let him know that we’d do it. And when they’d gone on, “Do you think Timothy sensed that?” says Mis’ Toplady, meditative. “I donno,” says I, “but I can see to it that he does.” “I was only thinking,” says she, “that we’ve got seven dozen fresh eggs in the house, and we’re getting six quarts of milk a day now....” “I’ll recall ’em,” says I, “to his mind.” But when I’d run ahead and caught up with ’em, and mentioned eggs and milk suggestive, in them quantities, “Sure,” says Timothy, “I just been telling Silas he could count on ’em.” And that was a wonderful thing, for we one and all knew Timothy Toplady as one of them decanter men that the glass stopper can’t hardly be got out. But it wasn’t the most wonderful--for Silas spoke up fervent--ferventer than I’d ever known him to speak: “They can have anything we’ve got, Calliope,” he says, “in our stores or our homes. Make ’em know that,” says he. It didn’t take me one secunt to pull Silas aside. “Silas,” I says, “oh, Silas--is what you just said true? Because if it’s true--won’t you let it last after the water goes down? Won’t you let Bitty keep his store?” He looked down at me, frowning a little. One of the little yellow chicks in the coop got out between the bars just then, and was just falling on its nose when he caught it--I s’pose bill is more biologic, but it don’t sound so dangerous--and he was tucking it back in, gentle, with its mother, while he answered me, testy: “Lord, Calliope,” he says, “a flood’s a flood. Can’t you keep things separate?” “No, sir,” I says, “I can’t. Nor I don’t believe the Lord can either.” Ain’t it like things was arranged to happen in patterns, same as crystals? For it was just in them next two minutes that two things happened: The first was that a boy came riding over on his wheel from the telegraph office and give a telegram to Timothy. And Timothy opened it and waved it over his head, and come with it over to us: “First contribution for the flood-suffers!” says he. “They telephoned the news over to Red Barns and listen at this: ‘Put me down for Twenty-five dollars towards the flood folks food. Zachariah Roper.’” I looked over to Timothy straight. “Zachariah Roper,” I says, “that owns the cement plant that some of the Flat folks got in the way of?” Timothy jerked his shoulder distasteful. “The idear,” says he, “of bringin’ up business at a time like this.”