“There!” she thought; “by the time that is gone he will have learned the fork lesson completely!”
But the fourth quarter went slowly. Towsley eyed it lingeringly, even lovingly, yet the passes toward his crumby lips were few and far between. The lady grew somewhat disturbed, for, from his previous exhibition of it, she had supposed there could be no limit to the child’s appetite.
“Is there anything wrong with it, Towsley? Doesn’t it taste as nicely as the rest?”
“Well, ma’am—Miss Armacost, not quite. I think it’s getting—getting a little—little bitter.”
The hostess checked another smile and proffered the beef which she had carved. This was declined. So was everything else she suggested, and they rose from the table.
Miss Lucy rang the bell that summoned Jefferson, who was not only coachman but a man-of-all-work in the quiet establishment. When this gray-headed “boy” appeared, the newsboy was put into his charge with the order:
“Take him to the third floor bath. He is to sleep in the front hall bedroom. After you have attended him to bed, come to me. I will have something else for you to do.”
Jefferson was good-natured and devoted to Miss Armacost; but he liked things to go along in an orderly way. Commonly, he would have been through with all his tasks for the day, and he looked with something like disgust at this dirty street arab who was thus turning the household “all tipsy-topsy.” But he dared not show his feelings to his mistress, and with a gruff “Come along, then,” he guided Towsley toward the top of the house.
An hour later Miss Lucy called Mary.