That was just what Tommy wanted to see.
“I’ll get the old beggar down in a jiffy, ma,” he chuckled.
He pulled forth a chest and with much grunting turned it on end. Then he climbed up on it and reached for pussy. “Nice kitty,” he said, trying to get hold of the elusive feline. Kitty’s tail swelled and she reached down and left three little pink scratches on Tommy’s wrist.
“Gol darn,” whispered Tommy.
“Come down here to once,” ordered his mother.
Tom climbed down and stood sheepishly sucking his wrist.
“You said ‘gol darn,’—I heard you,” cried the widow.
“She scratched,” whimpered Tommy.
Mrs. Boss lifted the frying-pan from the fire and laid hold of a long stick of white hickory.
“Since Mr. Smythe’s been here and talked so nice to me about Christianity, I’ve been mendin’ my ways a lot,” she sighed, “but with a trial of a boy like you it’s most useless to try and keep good for long. You’ve broke up my hymn-singin’ and now you’ve gone and swore. Think what that God-fearin’ man, Mr. Smythe, would think of me if he knowed I let you go on in your wicked ways. I must lick you, and I’m goin’ to do it.”