Well, Chancy drew back a little, quite a little. He got clear out of range. Chet grinned at him provoking. But Chancy was a persistent sort of fellow; he tried Old Mose again.
“I don’t see what for you hold anythin’ agin me, uncle, I never done a thing to you.”
“Don’t you dast call me uncle,” says Old Mose, and he takes a step forward, belligerent-like.
Chet put in his oar. “That’s right, Mr. Miller. I’d hate to own he was a relative of mine—him and his curly hair.”
Old Mose turned his head slow so he could look at Chet, and says:
“One more peep out of you and I’ll take you acrost my knee and fix you like your ma ought to fix you often. I calc’late you figger you’re growed up past spankin’s. Huh! You yaller-haired slinkum!”
Things looked pretty discouraging for Chet and Chancy when in came Mrs. Bloom, all out of breath. Right at her heels was Mrs. Peterson, panting like all-git-out. Up they rushed to Old Mose.
“Why, Mr. Miller,” says Mrs. Bloom, almost putting her arm around him, “I just heard you was in town. My! I’m that glad to see you! You’re a-goin’ to come and take dinner with us, hain’t you?”
Old Mose blinked. He didn’t know what to make of it, and before he decided what was going on Mrs. Peterson wedged herself in and got him by the other arm.
“Mr. Miller’s comin’ to our house to dinner,” says she. “We’re a-goin’ to have chicken and biscuits in gravy and punkin-pie. You’re a-comin’ to our house, hain’t you?”