David might have responded that the vacuum was due to the fact that his breakfast had consisted of a piece of bread and his last night’s supper of a dish of soup, but the Dunne pride inclined to reservation on family and personal matters. He speared another small potato and paused, with fork suspended between mouth and plate.
“Mother says she thinks I am hollow inside like a stovepipe.”
“Well, I dunno. Stovepipes git filled sometimes,” ruminated his host.
“Leave room for the ice cream, David,” cautioned M’ri, as she descended to the cellar. 18
The lad’s eyes brightened as he beheld the golden pyramid. Another period of lingering bliss, and then with a sigh of mingled content and regret, David rose from the table.
“Want me to hook up for you, Mr. Brumble?” he asked, moved to show his gratitude for the hospitality extended.
“Why, yes, Dave; wish you would. My back is sorter lame to-day. Land o’ livin’,” he commented after David had gone to the barn, “but that boy swallered them potaters like they wuz so many pills!”
“Poor Mrs. Dunne!” sighed M’ri. “I am afraid it’s all she can do to keep a very small pot boiling. I am glad she sent the sorghum, so I could have an excuse for sending the eggs.”
“She hain’t poor so long as she hez a young sprout like Dave a-growin’ up. We used to call Peter Dunne ‘Old Hickory,’ but Dave, he’s second-growth hickory. He’s the kind to bend and not break. Jest you wait till he’s seasoned onct.”
After she had packed a pail of ice cream for David, gathered some flowers for Ziny, and made 19 out a memorandum of supplies for Barnabas to get in town, M’ri set out on her errand of mercy.