“If you say so, I will give them a good feed and do our moving from the house to the rooms upstairs here. Of course I will pay your man for the extra labor.”
“Dat am highly satisfact’ry to me, Mistah Newton.”
The two teams were driven over to the cottage and unhitched in front of it. Frank rigged up a convenient feed trough, gave the horses their oats, and invited Boyle to join him at supper.
Frank had talked over the moving question with his mother that morning. He found that she had put in a busy day. All the pictures were removed from the walls and neatly encased in newspapers. The books had been placed in boxes; everything, even to the beds, carried from upstairs.
Notwithstanding all this, Mrs. Ismond spread out an appetizing meal for the two workers.
“Mother, this really won’t do,” remonstrated Frank seriously.
“What won’t do, my son?” asked his mother, smiling.
“Carrying those heavy things down stairs.”
“But I did not do that—at least not all of it,” the widow hastened to say. “Your friend, Nelson Cady, happened along about three o’clock. Nothing would do but he must lend a helping hand. Then his chums found him out. They were soon in service, too.”