“What did you do it for, I say, you queer thing?” asked Betty, standing before him.
“I wanted to help you,” said Johnny, “you looked so hot and tired.”
“And cross, hey?” said Betty, suspiciously; “why didn’t you say cross, and done with it? well never mind, I won’t pester you, and I’ll give you some dinner, so long as master says so, but I can’t say I have much faith in beggar children; its ‘God bless you,’ if you give them what they want, and it’s something else, that I won’t repeat, if you don’t; that’s the upshot on’t, but sit down in that chair, and munch your bread and butter, and don’t you dare to lay hands on them silver forks now, d’ye hear?”
As Betty said this, and as she crossed the kitchen with a pot of hot water, her foot slipped on an apple-paring, and she would have fallen and scalded herself badly, had it not been for Johnny, who sprang to help her.
“Now what do you do that for?” asked Betty again, when she had wiped up the puddle of hot water from the floor; “you are the queerest young one I ever saw. Don’t you ever get mad when people snap you up; I can’t stand it a minute. I guess you are better than you look, after all; I will give you some chicken when master has done with it; it is lucky that hot water didn’t splash all over me, what’s your name?”
“Johnny.”
“Johnny what?”
“That’s it,” said Johnny—“Johnny Watt; how did you know?”
“Don’t be poking fun at me;” said Betty; “where’s your mother?”
“In Ireland.”