“You did!” Martin Pike spoke angrily, but not in the bull bass of yore.  “My accounts with her estate are closed,” he said harshly.  “If she wants anything let her come here.”

Joe shook his head.  “No.  You must be there at eight o’clock.”

—­Booth Tarkington:  The Conquest of Canaan ("Harper’s").

B.  Notice the conversation in the following narrative.  Consider also the incentive moment and the climax.  Suggest improvements.

When Widow Perkins saw Widower Parsons coming down the road she looked as mad as a hornet and stepped to the back door.

“William Henry,” she called to the lank youth chopping wood, “you’ve worked hard enough for one day.  Come in and rest.”

“Guess that’s the first time you ever thought I needed a rest since I was born.  I’ll keep right on chopping till you get through acceptin’ old Hull,” he replied, whereupon the widow slammed the door and looked twice as mad as before.

“Mornin’, widdy,” remarked the widower, stalking into the room, taking a chair without an invitation, and hanging his hat on his knee.  “Cold day,” he added cheerfully.

The widow nodded shortly, at the same time inwardly prophesying a still colder day for him before he struck the weather again.

“Been buyin’ a new cow,” resumed the caller, impressively.

“Have, eh?” returned the widow, with a jerk, bringing out the ironing board and slamming it down on the table.

“An’ two hogs,” went on the widower, wishing the widow would glance at him just once and see how affectionate he looked.  “They’ll make pork enough for all next winter and spring.”

“Will, eh?” responded the widow, with a bang of the iron that nearly wrecked the table.

“An’ a—­a—­lot o’ odd things ‘round the house; an’ the fact is, widdy, you see—­that is, you know—­was going to say if you’ll agree”—­the widower lost his words, and in his desperation hung his hat on the other knee and hitched a trifle nearer the ironing board.

“No, Hull Parsons, I don’t see a single mite, nor I don’t know a particle, an’ I ain’t agreein’ the least bit,” snapped the widow, pounding the creases out of the tablecloth.

“But say, widdy, don’t get riled so soon,” again ventured Parsons.  “I was jest goin’ to tell you that I’ve been proposing to Carpenter Brown to build a new—­”

By this time the widow was glancing at him in a way he wished she wouldn’t.

“Is that all the proposin’ you’ve done in the last five mouths, Hull Parsons?” she demanded stormily.  “You ain’t asked every old maid for miles around to marry you, have you, Hull Parsons?  An’ you didn’t tell the last one you proposed to that if she didn’t take you there would be only one more chance left—­that old pepper-box of a Widow Perkins?  You didn’t say that, now, did you, Hull Parsons?” and the widow’s eyes and voice snapped fire all at once.