“Good-night, good-night! Come again,” called the three on the veranda. Then the door closed behind them, as they entered the house.
Meanwhile, walking across the common, Benny was entertaining Mr. Smith.
“Yep, they’ll take ye, I bet ye—Aunt Jane an’ Uncle Frank will!”
“Well, that’s good, I’m sure.”
“Yep. An’ it’ll be easy, too. Why, Aunt Jane’ll just tumble over herself ter get ye, if ye just mention first what yer’ll pay. She’ll begin ter reckon up right away then what she’ll save. An’ in a minute she’ll say, ‘Yes, I’ll take ye.’”
“Indeed!”
The uncertainty in Mr. Smith’s voice was palpable even to eight-year-old Benny.
“Oh, you don’t need ter worry,” he hastened to explain. “She won’t starve ye; only she won’t let ye waste anythin’. You’ll have ter eat all the crusts to yer pie, and finish ‘taters before you can get any puddin’, an’ all that, ye know. Ye see, she’s great on savin’—Aunt Jane is. She says waste is a sinful extravagance before the Lord.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Smith laughed outright this time. “But are you sure, my boy, that you ought to talk—just like this, about your aunt?”
Benny’s eyes widened.