But the irate farm-wife, her round eyes blazing, slammed the door in his face as she flung her final word after him.
"You'll git back nuthin'," she cried furiously. "You let me git you back here agin an' you'll sure find a sort o' first-class hell runnin' around, an' you won't need no hot flannels nor poultices to ke'p you from freezin' stone cold."
Then, with perfect calmness and astonishing skill, she flung herself to the task of caring for her mistress in that practical, feminine fashion which, though he may appreciate, no man has ever yet quite understood.