“I suppose,” said father, gravely, to mother, across the table, at supper, “that I needn’t order anything at Piper’s (Piper was the butcher) for a few days.”
“Why so?” asked mother, for the moment puzzled.
“We’ll have fish, you know.”
“Sure enough!” agreed mother, enlightened, and glancing at you. “Of course; Johnny’s going fishing.”
From your end of the table you looked keenly at the one and at the other and pondered. If the show of confidence in you was genuine, how gratified and proud you felt! But was it? Father went on soberly eating; mother, transparent soul, smiled at you, as if in reparation, and winked both eyes.
You grinned confusedly, and bent again to your plate. Yes, they were making fun of you. But who cared! And you had mental revenge in the thought that perhaps you’d show them.
You turned in early, as demanded by the strenuous day ahead. To turn you out no alarm-clock was necessary. The sun himself was just parting the pink hangings of the east, and on earth apparently only the roosters and robins were astir, when, with a hazy recollection of having fished all night, you scrambled to the floor and into your clothes.
Mother’s voice sounded gently outside the door.
“Johnny?”
“Yes; I’m up.”