However differentiated from other suburban places Dumfries Corners may be in most instances, in the matter of obtaining and retaining efficient domestics the citizens of that charming town find it much like all other communities of its class.  Civilization brings with it everywhere, it would seem, problems difficult of solution, and conspicuous among them may be mentioned the servant problem.  It is probable that the only really happy young couple that ever escaped the annoyance of this particular evil were Adam and Eve, and as one recalls their case it was the interference of a third party, in the matter of their diet, that brought all their troubles upon them, so that even they may not be said to have enjoyed complete immunity from domestic trials.  What quality it is in human nature that leads a competent housemaid or a truly-talented culinary artist to abhor the country-side, and to prefer the dark, cellar-like kitchens of the city houses it is difficult to surmise; why the suburban housekeeper finds her choice limited every autumn to the maid that the city folks have chosen to reject is not clear.  That these are the conditions which confront surburban residents only the exceptionally favored rustic can deny.

In Dumfries Corners, even were there no rich red upon the trees, no calendar upon the walls, no invigorating tonic in the air to indicate the season, all would know when autumn had arrived by the anxious, hunted look upon the faces of the good women of that place as they ride on the trains to and from the intelligence offices of the city looking for additions to their ménage.  Of course in Dumfries Corners, as elsewhere, it is possible to employ home talent, but to do this requires larger means than most suburbanites possess, for the very simple reason that the home talent is always plentifully endowed with dependents.  These latter, to the number of eight or ten ­which observation would lead one to believe is the average of the successful local cook, for instance ­increase materially the butcher’s and grocer’s bills, and, one not infrequently suspects, the coal man’s as well.

Years ago, when he was young and inexperienced, the writer of this narrative, his suspicions having been aroused by the seeming social popularity of his cook, took occasion one Sunday afternoon to count the number of mysterious packages, of about a pound in weight each, which set forth from his kitchen and were carried along his walk in various stages of ineffectual concealment by the lady’s visitors.  The result was by no means appalling, seven being the total.  But granting that seven was a fair estimate of the whole week’s output, and that the stream flowed on Sundays only, and not steadily through the other six days, the annual output, on a basis of fifty weeks ­giving the cook’s generosity a two weeks’ vacation ­three hundred and fifty pounds of something were diverted from his pantry into channels for which they were not originally designed, and on a valuation of twenty-five cents apiece his minimum contribution to his cook’s dependents became thereby very nearly one hundred dollars.  Add to this the probable gifts to similarly fortunate relatives of a competent local waitress, of an equally generously disposed laundress with cousins, not to mention the genial, open-handed generosity of a hired man in the matter of kindling-wood and edibles, and living becomes expensive with local talent to help.

It is in recognition of this seemingly cast-iron rule that local service is too expensive for persons of modest income, that the modern economical house-wife prefers to fill her ménage with maids from the metropolis, even though it happen that she must take those who for one reason or another have failed to please her city sisters.  It may be, too, that this is one of the reasons for the constant changes in most suburban houses, for it is equally axiomatic that once an alien becomes acclimated she takes on a clientele of adopted relatives, who in the course of time become as much of a drain upon the treasury of the household as the Simon-Pure article.

The Brinleys had been through the domestic mill in its every phase.  They had had cooks, and cooks, and cooks, and maids, and maids, and maids, plus other maids; they had been face to face with arson and murder; Mrs. Brinley had parted a laundress armed with a flat-iron from a belligerent cook armed with an ice-pick, and twice the ministers of the law had carried certain irate women bodily forth with the direst of threats lest they should return later and remove the Brinley family from the list of the living.

All of which contributed to Mrs. Brinley’s unhappiness and rather increased than diminished her natural timidity.  Brinley, on the other hand, professed to know no fear, but according to his theory that ways and means were his care, and that the domestic affairs of his household were his wife’s, and beyond his jurisdiction, held himself aloof and said never a word to the recalcitrant servant, confining what upbraiding he did exclusively to Mrs. Brinley.

“Why don’t you scold Bridget?” cried Mrs. Brinley one morning, after Brinley had made a few remarks to his wife which were not to her taste, inasmuch as she felt that she had done nothing to deserve them.  “I didn’t burn the steak.”

“That is very true, my dear,” said Brinley, “but you are responsible for the cook who did.  It would never do for me to interfere.  I have troubles enough with my office-boys.  This is your bailiwick, not mine, and until I ask you to scold my clerks you mustn’t ask me to scold your servants.”  With this sage remark the valiant Brinley at once took his departure.

Time passed, and it so happened one autumn that the once happy household found itself in the throes of a particularly aggravated case of cook.  She was a sixteen-dollar cook, and had been recommended as being “splendid.”  In just what respect she showed her splendor, save in her regal lack of manners and the marvellous coloring of her costumes on her Sundays out, was never perceptible, but one thing that was wholly clear at the end of a three-weeks’ service was her independence of manner.

Meals were never ready on time, and the dinner-hour, instead of being a fixed time beneath her sway, seemed to become a variable point, according to the lady’s whim.  In the observance of the breakfast-hour she was equally erratic, and on several trying occasions Brinley was on the verge of the dilemma of either failing to keep an appointment in town or going without his morning meal.  Sometimes the coffee would come to the table a thin, amber fluid that tasted like particularly bad consomme.  Again it would be served with all the thickness of a puree.  Her bread was similarly variable in its undesirability.  There were biscuits that held all the flaky charm of a snowball.  There were loaves of bread that reminded one of the stories of hardtack in Cuba during the late unpleasantness.  There were English muffins that rested upon poor Brinley’s digestion as the world may fairly be presumed to rest upon the shoulders of Atlas, and, indeed, it is a tradition in the Brinley family that one of this cook’s pie-crusts rivalled Harveyized steel in its impenetrability.

Indeed, Brinley, usually a silent sufferer, commented upon this cohesive quality of Ellen’s pastry on two different occasions.  On the first he advised Mrs. Brinley to learn the secret of Ellen’s manipulation of the ingredients of a pie-crust, and have herself capitalized to rival the corporations which provide the government with armor-plate.  On the second he made the sage though disagreeable remark that the “next apple-pie we have should be served with individual steam-drills.”  And he one day accompanied Mrs. Brinley to a quiet golf links, and, when he had teed up, that good lady observed one of Ellen’s doughnuts upon the little mound of sand before him instead of his favorite ball.

“I cut up the Silverton ball so,” he said, as he addressed the tee, “that I’m ashamed of myself.  I may not play any better with this doughnut, but it will never show the marks of the irons as a bit of mere gutta-percha would.”

“If you feel that way about Ellen,” Mrs. Brinley observed, just as Brinley was about to drive off with a real ball, “I don’t see why you don’t discharge her.”

Brinley took his eye off the ball to look indignantly upon his wife, and consequently foozled.

“Discharge her?  Why should I discharge her?” he demanded, his temper growing as he observed where he had landed his ball.  “I’m not running the house, my dear.  You are.  I didn’t ask you to tell Miss Flossie Fairfax that, as she couldn’t spell, she was no longer useful as a stenographer in the office of Brinley & Rutherford.  Why should you ask me to tell a cook that her services are no longer required in the establishment of Brinley & Brinley, of which you are the manager?”

“It isn’t easy to discharge a girl,” Mrs. Brinley began.  “Particularly a quarrelsome woman like Ellen.”

“Oh, that’s it,” said Brinley.  “You are afraid of her.”

“Not exactly,” said Mrs. Brinley.  “But ­”

“Of course, if you are afraid of her, I’ll get rid of her,” persisted Brinley, valiantly.  “Just wait until we get home.  I’ll show you a thing or two when it comes to ridding one’s self of an unfaithful servant.  The steak this morning looked like a stake that martyrs had been burned at, and I am not afraid to say so.”

And so it was decided that Brinley, on his return home, should interview Ellen and inform her that her services would not be required after the first of the month.  “Now let’s play golf,” he said.  “I’ll settle Ellen in a minute.  Fore!”

How Brinley fulfilled his promise is best shown by his talk with Mrs. Brinley the next morning when, somewhat red of face, he rejoined her in the dining-room after his interview with Ellen.

“Well?” said Mrs. Brinley.

“It’s all right,” Brinley replied, with an uneasy glance at his wife.  “She’s going to stay.”

“Going to stay?” echoed Mrs. Brinley, her eyes opening wide in a very natural astonishment.  “Why, I thought you were going to discharge her?”

“Well ­I was,” he said, haltingly.  “I was, of course.  That’s what I went down for ­but ­er ­you know, my dear, that there are two sides to every question.”

“Even to Ellen’s biscuits?” Mrs. Brinley laughed.

“Never mind that.  She’s going to do better,” said Brinley.  “You’ll find that hereafter we’ve got a cook, and not an incendiary nor a forger of armor-plate.”

“And may I ask how this wonderful reform has been worked in the brief space of ten minutes?” asked Mrs. Brinley.  “Have you hypnotized her?”

“No,” said Brinley.  Then he looked rather sheepishly out of the window.  “I’ve given her an incentive to do better.  I’ve increased her wages.”

Mrs. Brinley gazed at him silently in open-mouthed wonder for a full half-minute.

“You did what?” asked Mrs. Brinley.

“I told her we’d give her twenty dollars a month instead of sixteen,” said Brinley.  “You needn’t laugh,” he added.  “I began very severely.  Asked her what she meant by ignoring our wishes as to hours.  I dilated forcefully upon her apparent fondness for burning steaks to a crisp, and sending broiled chicken to the table looking as if somebody had dropped a flat-iron on them.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mrs. Brinley.  “And what did she say?  Was she impertinent?”

“Not a bit of it,” said Brinley “She took it very nicely until I spoke of the muffins, after which I had intended to give her notice to quit, but she took the wind completely out of my sails by asking me what I expected at sixteen dollars a month.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Brinley.

“Exactly,” said Brinley.  “That was a point I had not considered at all.  After all, she was right.  What can you expect for sixteen dollars?”

“Well, what next?” asked Mrs. Brinley, her eyes a-twinkle.

“I asked her if she thought she could do better on twenty dollars,” he answered.  “She thought she could, and that’s the way it stands now.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Brinley, and then she burst into a perfect explosion of laughter, which she soon curbed, however, as she noticed the expression on poor Brinley’s face.  “I’ve no doubt you have acted with perfect justice in this matter, my dear George,” she said.  “But I think hereafter I’ll do my own discharging.  Your way is rather extravagant ­er ­don’t you really think so?”

“Perhaps,” said Brinley, and departed for town.

“The madam is right about that,” he said to himself later in the day, as he thought over the incident.  “But extravagant or not, I couldn’t have discharged that woman if somebody had offered me a clear hundred.  Mrs. B. doesn’t know it, but I was in a blue funk from start to finish.”

In which surmise Brinley was wrong.  Mrs. B. did know it, and when two weeks later Ellen became absolutely impossible, and demanded a kitchen-maid as the perquisite of a twenty-dollar cook, Mrs. Brinley didn’t think of calling upon her husband to perform the function of the executioner, but like a brave woman actually summoned the cook into her presence and did it herself.  A less courageous woman would have gone downstairs into the kitchen to do it.