He comes in tired, disgusted, and mad as a
hornet, and when the case is laid before him, he goes out in the kitchen,
pulls off his coat and takes the jar.
He remarks that he is at a loss to know what women are made for,
anyway. He says they are all right to sit around and do crochet work, but
when strategy, brain, and muscle are required, then they can't get along
without a man. He tries to unscrew the cover, and his thumb slips off and
knocks the skin off the knuckle. He breathes a silent prayer and calls for
the kerosene can, and pours a little oil into the crevice, and lets it
soak, and then he tries again, and swears audibly.
[Illustration: THE OLD MAN TRIES HIS HAND.]
Then he calls for a tack-hammer, and taps the cover gently on one side,
the glass jar breaks, and the juice runs down his trousers leg, on the
table and all around. Enough of the fruit is saved for supper, and the old
man goes up the back stairs to tie his thumb up in a rag, and change his
pants.
All come to the table smiling, as though nothing had happened,
and the house-wife don't allow any of the family to have any sauce for
fear they will get broken glass into their stomachs, but the "company" is
provided for generously, and all would be well only for a remark of a
little boy who, when asked if he will have some more of the sauce, says he
"don't want no strawberries pickled in kerosene.
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