“It don’t taste like butter,” was the indignant rejoinder. “Miss M’ri makes the best cream of any one in the country.”
“I knew that, my young friend, before you did. It’s a long time since I had any, though. Will you sell it to me, David? I will give you half a dollar for it.”
Half a dollar! His mother had to work all day to earn that amount. The ice cream was not 21 his––not entirely. Miss M’ri had sent it to his mother. Still––
“’T will melt anyway before I get home,” he argued aloud and persuasively.
“Of course it will,” asserted the would-be purchaser.
David surrendered the pail, and after much protestation consented to receive the piece of money which the young man pressed upon him.
“You’ll have to help me eat it now; there’s no pleasure in eating ice cream alone.”
“We haven’t any spoons,” commented the boy dubiously.
“We will go to my house and eat it.”
“Where do you live?” asked David in surprise.