"You'll ketch it fer this, an' don't you ferget it," she stormed, "an' if I ever hear of you gobblin' up Anson's share o' the lunch ag'in, you young glutton, you'll go to school fer a month without any lunch a'tall."
Billy turned. "I didn't say I ate Anson's pie an' cake, Ma," he said gently. "I didn't take it 'cause I wanted it."
"Then why did you take it a'tall, I want'a know?"
"I took it 'cause I thought it was bad fer him. You see, Ma, Anse suffers turrible from indigestion," Billy explained. "'Course maybe you don't notice it same as I do, 'cause you don't sleep in the same room with him. But Ma, he groans an' gasps all night—an' he has the most awful dreams—now don't you Anse?" he asked, turning to his brother.
Anson started to whimper. "I do have bad dreams," he confessed miserably, "but pie an' tarts ain't to blame fer it."
"Silence, you!" Mrs. Wilson reached for the dinner-pail and proceeded to extract from it one tart, one doughnut. "I guess maybe your brother's right," she said grimly. "If that's the way you carry on nights we'll hold you off pastry fer a while. Now then, grab that pail and off to school with both o' you!"
Billy was outside first and waiting for Anson at the road gate when he came down the path, dejectedly wiping his eyes and vowing inaudible threats at the agent of his new woe.
"Now, then," said Billy as he came up, "maybe you'll begin to see that it don't pay to blab so danged much."
"It was dirty mean of you," sniffled Anson. "You know how much I like pie an' tarts; an' here I am havin' to lug yourn an' gettin' none fer myself. Fer two cents I'd chuck this dinner-pail in the crick."
"An' fer two cents I'd punch that crooked eye of yourn straight," cried Billy, his temper rising. "You'd best close your mouth while the closin's good, an' if anythin' happens to that pail you're goin' to hear from me."