"It also belongs to your dear, gentle son," she grated, "leastwise I found it in one of his pants pockets."
Wilson whistled softly. "You don't say!" he managed to articulate. "Why, Mary, it's a pipe!"
"Is it?"
"Yes, a corn-cob pipe," he repeated weakly.
"Is it re'lly?" she returned with sarcasm. "I wasn't sure. I thort maybe it was a fish-line, or a jack-knife. Now what do you think of your precious son?" she demanded.
Wilson shook his head. "It's a new pipe," he ventured to say, "and," sniffing the bowl, "it ain't had nuthin' more deadly than dried mullen leaves in it so far. Ain't a great deal of harm in a boy smokin' mullen leaves, shorely, Mary."
"Oh, is that so? Haven't I heered you an' Cobin Keeler say, time and ag'in, that that's how you both got the smoke-habit? And look at you old chimbneys now; the pipe's never out'a your mouths."
"I'll talk things over with Billy in the mornin'," promised Wilson as he took the boot-jack from its peg.
"A pile of good your talkin''ll do," she cried. "I'm goin' to talk things over with that boy with a hickory ram-rod, jest as soon as I feel he's proper asleep; that's what I'm goin' to do! Who's trainin' that boy, you er me?" she demanded.
"You, of course, Mary."