“Oh, Lucas! I wouldn’t trouble you for the world,” returned ’Phemie.
Lucas’s countenance was a wonderful lobster-like red, and he was so bashful that his eyes fairly watered.
“’Twouldn’t be no trouble, Miss ’Phemie,” he told her. “’Twould be a pleasure–it re’lly would.”
“But what would folks say?” gasped ’Phemie, her eyes dancing. “What would your sister and mother say?”
“They needn’t know a thing about it,” declared Lucas, eagerly. “I–I could slip out o’ my winder an’ down the shed ruff, an’ sneak up here with my shot-gun.”
“Why, Mr. Pritchett! I believe you are in the habit of doing such things. I am afraid you get out that way often, and the family knows nothing about it.”
“Naw, I don’t–only circus days, an’ w’en the Wild West show comes, an’–an’ Fourth of July mornin’s. But don’t you tell; will yer?”
“Cross my heart!” promised ’Phemie, giggling. “But suppose you should shoot somebody around here with that gun?”
“Sarve ’em aout jest right!” declared the young farmer, boldly. “B’sides, I’d only load it with rock-salt. ’Twould pepper ’em some.”
“Salt and pepper ’em, Lucas,” giggled the girl. “And season ’em right, I expect, for breaking our rest.”