"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.
"Lettin' Broxton's gal do that. You could ha' tacked on that leg forty times if you could once. Ain't that true?"
But Mr. Day refused to quarrel. He took a long drink from the pail of fresh water Marty had brought. Then he said, tentatively: