Penny was grateful. The children had been her responsibility since Rebecca's death, and she welcomed the chance to get away and think for a little while. "I'll be around," she said, "when you have to start supper."
"Don't yuh do it now, Miss Penny, don't you do nothin' o' the sort. You leave the kids with me an' let 'em stick by me. It'll do 'em good tuh talk tuh someone 'sides them glum-actin' cousins of yores with their souls full o' vinegar till it shows in their faces."
Penny smiled, "It's a deal, Gimlet. They're your responsibility till bedtime."
The children, heretofore ignored, were wide-eyed at the thought that anyone could actually want their company.
Gimlet's manner seemed forced. Penny fancied her old friend had worries about which he said nothing.
"Yew git," he said, spanking the oldest boy playfully. "I'll be right along an' meet yuh by the kitchen door."
When the children had gone, the old man with one eye turned to Penelope.
"I got somethin'," he said, "tuh tell you."
"Yes, Gimlet?"