There was a scrambling at the back door, it flew open, and Johnny York made his appearance. He was about eleven years old. A redheaded, freckled-faced boy, with eyes like a sculpin. With much haste he tossed his hat on the lounge, dragged a chair across the floor, jumped into his seat, and fastened his eyes upon the dish of squash.
“Squash!” he ejaculated, lifting his plate.
“Wait, sonny, wait; don’t you see we have company,” said Mrs. York.
Johnny looked round the table, saw Teddy, grinned, then fastened his eyes on his favorite dish.
Mrs. York helped Teddy and Jenny and then looked at Johnny.
“Squash,” answered Johnny to the look.
Into his plate Mrs. York heaped the yellow vegetable in such profusion that Teddy stared. The youngster seemed not a bit discouraged by the supply but attacked it at once. The two smaller children were also helped from the same dish, paying no attention to the contents of the principal platter. With a great many groans Mr. York supplied his own plate bountifully, and set to work like a man ravenously hungry. Teddy kept him company—he had fasted long and he was tempted by a favorite dinner.
“Teddy,” said Mrs. York, “we can never be grateful enough to that dear sister of yours, and only think, we turned her away from our doors.”
“Yes,” sighed Mr. York, “and refused her bounty. It was cruel, and if ever there was a thing a poor sick man hankered for, it was what she brought.”