“No, sir.”
“What made you think I would give you some dinner?”
“Because every body is kind to me,” said little Johnny, looking trustfully up in Mr. Bond’s face.
No wonder, thought Mr. Bond. “Well Johnny, I’ll give you some dinner, and then I must try to find you some work; did you ever hear the old rhyme,
“‘Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do?’
“Come in, come to the kitchen with me; here, Betty, give this boy a good dinner, quick as you can, and after I have eaten mine I want to see him again.”
“Dinner! I guess so,” muttered Betty; “I wonder if master thinks I roasted those chickens, and made those apple tarts, and custards, for that little rag-a-muffin, that dirty little hop o’ my thumb?”
“Can’t I help you lift that pot off the fire,” asked Johnny, as Betty’s face grew red, trying to move it.
“You? well I don’t know but you kin,” said the mollified and astonished Betty; “why yes, you may if you have a mind to; what put that into your head? and what made you speak so civil to me after I spoke so cross to you; there’s something under that, I reckon;” and Betty looked at him sharply; poor Betty, she had been knocked round the world so roughly, that she had learned to suspect every body.