The whole house rang with the vigor of Janice's blows. Marty started up the stairs in a hurry, and Mr. Day followed him. Mrs. Day came to the foot of the stairs with the piece of pork still dangling from her fork.
Marty reached his cousin's door and banged it open without as much as saying "By your leave."
"Hullo! What you doin'?" demanded the boy.
"Can't you see?" returned Janice, coolly. "I got sick of being rocked to sleep every night on that old soap-box. I'll wager, Marty, that this leg will stay put when I get through with it."
"Wal! of all things!" grunted Mr. Day, with his head poked in at the open door.
"What's Janice doing?" demanded his wife, too heavy to mount the stairs easily.
Uncle Jason turned about and descended the flight without replying to his wife; but at her reiterated cry Marty explained.
"Ain't that gal a good 'un?" said the boy. "She's gone and put on the old leg to that bedstead. That's been broke off ever since you cleaned house last Fall, Maw."
"Oh! Well! Is that it?" repeated Mrs. Day. Then, when she and her husband were alone in the kitchen, before the young folk came down, she said, pointing the fork at him: "I declare for't! I'd feel ashamed if I was you, Jason Day."
"What for?" demanded her husband, scowling.