“Smoke _his_ pipe,” was the reply. “Why, what’s the matter, Polly?” Mrs. Tidger sniffed derisively. “You men are all alike,” she snapped. “What do you think Ann wears that pink bodice for?” “I never noticed she ’ad a pink bodice, Polly,” said the carpenter. “No? That’s what I say. You men never notice anything,” said his wife. “If you don’t send them two old fools off, I will.” “Don’t you like ’em to see Ann wearing pink?” inquired the mystified Tidger. Mrs. Tidger bit her lip and shook her head at him scornfully. “In plain English, Tidger, as plain as I can speak it,”—she said, severely, “they’re after Ann and ’er bit o’ money.” Mr. Tidger gazed at her open-mouthed, and taking advantage of that fact, blew out the candle to hide his discomposure. “What!” he said, blankly, “at ’er time o’ life?” “Watch ’em to-morrer,” said his wife. The carpenter acted upon his instructions, and his ire rose as he noticed the assiduous attention paid by his two friends to the frivolous Mrs. Pullen. Mr. Wiggett, a sharp-featured little man, was doing most of the talking, while his rival, a stout, clean-shaven man with a slow, oxlike eye, looked on stolidly. Mr. Miller was seldom in a hurry, and lost many a bargain through his slowness—a fact which sometimes so painfully affected the individual who had outdistanced him that he would offer to let him have it at a still lower figure. [Illustration: “You get younger than ever, Mrs. Pullen.”] “You get younger than ever, Mrs. Pullen,” said Wiggett, the conversation having turned upon ages. “Young ain’t the word for it,” said Miller, with a praiseworthy determination not to be left behind. “No; it’s age as you’re thinking of, Mr. Wiggett,” said the carpenter, slowly; “none of us gets younger, do we, Ann?” “Some of us keeps young in our ways,” said Mrs. Pullen, somewhat shortly. “How old should you say Ann is now?” persisted the watchful Tidger. Mr. Wiggett shook his head. “I should say she’s about fifteen years younger nor me,” he said, slowly, “and I’m as lively as a cricket.” “She’s fifty-five,” said the carpenter. “That makes you seventy, Wiggett,” said Mr. Miller, pointedly. “I thought you was more than that. You look it.” Mr. Wiggett coughed sourly. “I’m fifty-nine,” he growled. “Nothing’ll make me believe as Mrs. Pullen’s fifty-five, nor anywhere near it.” “Ho!” said the carpenter, on his mettle—“ho! Why, my wife here was the sixth child, and she—- He caught a gleam in the sixth child’s eye, and expressed her age with a cough. The others waited politely until he had finished, and Mr. Tidger, noticing this, coughed again. “And she—” prompted Mr. Miller, displaying a polite interest. “She ain’t so young as she was,” said the carpenter. “Cares of a family,” said Mr. Wiggett, plumping boldly. “I always thought Mrs. Pullen was younger than her.” “So did I,” said Mr. Miller, “much younger.”