By this time, however, the snow had stopped. Lunch was served in the big Corner House dining-room, Neale and Sammy being guests.
It was an hilarious meal, of course. With such a crowd of young folks about the table—and on Saturday, too!—a sedate time was not possible. But Ruth tried to keep the younger ones from talking too loud or being too careless in their table manners.
Aunt Sarah Maltby, sitting at one end of the table, shook her head solemnly about midway of the meal at Sammy Pinkney.
“Young man,” she said in her severest way, “what do you suppose will become of you? You are the most mischievous boy I have ever seen—and I have seen a good many in my time.”
“Yes’m,” said Sammy, hanging his head, for he was afraid of Aunt Sarah.
“You should think of the future,” admonished the old lady. “There is something besides fun in this world.”
“Yes’m,” again came from the abashed, if not repentant, Sammy.
“Think what you might make of yourself, young man, if you desired. Do you realize that every boy born in this country has a chance to be president?”
“Huh!” ejaculated Sammy, suddenly looking up. “Be president, Miss Maltby? Huh! I tell you what: I’ll sell you my chance for a quarter.”
The irrepressible laugh from the other young folks that followed might have offended Aunt Sarah had not the front door bell rung at that very moment. Agnes, who was nearest, and much quicker than rheumatic Uncle Rufus, ran to answer the summons.