“We want a lot,” laughed Maria.
“Set up an' eat,” called the stranger cheerily; “let's make a banquet; it's Chrismus Eve!”
“That ham do smell powerful good,” muttered Silas, unconsciously drawing his chair up to the table, where the stranger handed him a plate and passed the ham. Maria went on frying eggs, as if, thought her husband, “they warn't twenty-five cents a dozen,” and then ran down into the cellar, returning panting and good-humored with a pan of apples and a jug of cider; then into the pantry, bringing a tin box out of which she took a cake.
“That's pound cake, M'ri,” cried Silas, aghast, holding his knife and fork upraised in mute horror. She went on cutting thick slices, humming under her breath.
“Might I, marm,” asked the stranger, pleasantly, “put this slice of ham and cake and this cup of milk aside, to eat bymeby?”
“How many meals do you eat in a evening?” growled Silas, awestruck at such an appetite; “an' I want you to know this ain't no tavern.”
“Do eat a bite yourself, marm,” said the stranger, as Maria carried the filled plate to the cupboard. The impudence of a tramp actually asking the mistress of the house to eat her own food, thought Silas. “We've eat our supper,” he hurled at the stranger.
“I couldn't tech a mite,” said Maria, beginning to clear up, and as he was through eating, the stranger gallantly helped her while Silas smoked in speechless rage.
“I'm used to being handy,” explained the tramp. “I allus helped wife. She's bin dead these twenty years, leaving me a baby girl that I brought up.”
“You was good to her?” asked Maria wistfully; the stranger had such a kind voice and gentle ways.