The visitor who entered the room on Ralph’s hospitable invitation was our near neighbor, Caleb Wilson. Mr. Wilson glanced at the array of hard little spheres on the floor and laughed.
“I’ll bet a cent you’ve been up to mischief, youngster,” he said, nodding to me as I handed him a chair.
He looked smilingly at Ralph, who retreated to Joe’s side, and made no answer.
“Ralph, do you hear Mr. Wilson?” Jessie sternly inquired.
“’Ess; me hears him.”
“Why don’t you answer him, then?”
“’Tause he didn’t ask me nuffin’.”
Joe’s sombre face lighted up; his white ivories gleamed out suddenly like a flash of sunlight through a storm cloud. To Joe’s mind few people had a right to question the doings of a Gordon, of any age or degree, and Mr. Wilson was not one of the favored few. Our genial neighbor laughed.
“That’s right, my little man; I didn’t. I made a statement, and you seem to be sharp enough already to see the difference.”
He had been carrying a covered tin pail in his hand. He now set it on the floor beside his chair, while Jessie, who had it much at heart that her little brother must be properly trained, remarked: