“Use it? You don’t mean git into the thing on the water? Into that there tipsy, oncertain, wabbly leetle boat? Would you dast?”
“S-s-sure,” says Mark. “I learned to paddle one two years ago.”
“Then,” says uncle, “I guess nobody’ll objec’ serious to fussin’ around in it. Feller left it here two years ago and hain’t never called for it. Go ahead, boys, and do your worst.”
The egg had been sizzling away in the frying-pan. Uncle poked at it with a fork, and then, quicker than a wink, he took hold of the handle of the pan, gave it a little flip, and, would you believe it, that egg turned over just as neat and settled down on its face. I heard Mark chuckle. Uncle looked sort of surprised.
“D-d-do you always turn them like that?” Mark asked.
“How would a feller turn an egg?” uncle wanted to know.
“Well,” says Mark, “after seeing it done like that I don’t know’s there’s any way quite so g-g-good. Anyhow, n-n-none so interestin’.”
In about five minutes the eggs, with fried potatoes and bacon and coffee, were ready, and we put them where they were wanting to go. Uncle gathered up what was left, and when he had shut the door tight he called Martha and Mary and gave it to them.
“Can we get the canoe down now?” I asked uncle.
“You can git it down any time you want to exceptin’ yestiddy. I don’t allow nobody to do anything yestiddy around this house. No, sir. Not a single, solitary thing. That’s how set in my ways I am.”