“And she’s tortoise-shell,” Kenneth said.
“Well, they happen to be the same thing,” said Mrs. Wood, patiently. “Mother, do you think it’s so very desirable for a boy to come home looking like this?”
“I’d like to get a glimpse of the other boy,” said Grandmother, with a wicked twinkle in her eye. Franklin gave a whoop of delight, but Grandmother cut short his joy by beckoning him into the other room.
“You said he licked a boy eight?” she asked, taking up her work.
“Yes, and, oh, Grandmother—”
“Nothing strange about that, since he’s a Wood. You whipped a boy eight when you were six, didn’t you? Seems to me I remember.”
“You bet!” said Franklin, with a joyous flush of recollection.
“Yes, and so did your father. But now you’re twelve, and I know a boy your own age you can’t whip.”
“Well, I’d just like to have you bring him out,” said Franklin, doubling up his fists.
“It’s yourself,” said Grandmother. “It seems a pity that you’re not strong enough to whip yourself,—when you want to chase cats, and things like that.”