She made a slash at the lad and he ducked. Out of four sweeps Tommy received one, and it was not a very hard one. He cried with his dirty face and laughed in his young heart. He wondered if ever a boy had an easier ma than he had. The cat in the meantime had taken advantage of the “whipping” to make herself scarce. Widow Boss went on with her singing as she set the supper table. Occasionally a smile would cross her face and she would sigh. Tommy wondered if Christianity made all people act funny. When Mary Ann came in with a big basket of hickory-nuts gathered from the ridges, her mother glanced at her and frowned. She watched the girl swing the heavy basket to a shelf on the wall, and a gleam of motherly pride lit up her face. Tommy, the fire-poker concealed beneath his homespun jacket, edged toward the door.
“See the cat as you was comin’ in, Mary Ann?” he asked carelessly.
His sister laughed and grabbed him.
“No, you don’t, sonny,” she said. “I know what you want to do with Sarah. My, but you’re a wicked imp, Tommy.”
“Imp is a swear-word,” charged the widow. “I’m surprised at you usin’ it, Mary Ann.”
“Why, ma,” exclaimed the girl, “you’re gettin’ awful pious, ain’t you?”
“Mr. Smythe would say that ‘imp’ is a swear-word,” said Mrs. Ross, “and Mr. Smythe is the best Christian in Bridgetown.”
“Did he tell you he was?” asked the girl.
“He did. Says he, ‘Mrs. Ross, I’m a godly man. I try to do right, and I love my neighbor.’ ”
“Maybe you’d like to move to Bridgetown, ma,” laughed Mary Ann.