“Who is he?” demanded Mrs. Edwards, rather sharply.
Bound boys—and Uncle Ruben never had any other—were her pet aversion.
“George,” said her husband.
“Not your nephew, George Edwards?” exclaimed Polly Ann, in shrill tones.
Uncle Ruben nodded, and moved nearer to the door.
“Well, if that don’t beat anything I ever heard of, I wouldn’t say so. Ruben Elias Edwards, have you gone an’ took leave of your seven senses? Don’t you know—”
“Yes, I know all about it,” interrupted Uncle Ruben. “I know that by bringin’ him here I can save enough money durin’ the next six years to buy you an’ Sally all the nice dresses an’ hats you want.”
Sally’s face grew radiant, but her mother was not deceived. She had listened to just such promises before, and knew how much they were worth. She settled back in her chair, with a determined look on her face, and Uncle Ruben, knowing what was coming, hastened to the barn to saddle his horse.
When he rode by the porch the storm was at its height. His wife was crying and scolding at an alarming rate, and her shrill tones rang in his ears long after he had passed through the gate.
“Women is curious things,” said Uncle Ruben to himself, as he urged the clay-bank forward at his best pace. “I knowed Polly Ann would raise a harrycane when I told her about George; but, in course, I couldn’t help that. She’ll do as I told her, all the same, ’cause I am the head boss in that house. When I once make up my mind to a thing, it has got to go through.”