“Yes, I’ve been working at it all the year, out of school hours,” was the reply.
“Then thar’s a job waitin’ fer you at Squar’ Dodd’s. His house ain’t big ’nough ter suit him, and he’s bound ter hev a po’ch and a lean-to on thet place of his’n.”
“Thank you ever so much. I’ll see Mr. Dodd about it to-night.” Martin’s eyes kindled at the thought of putting his knowledge to such immediate use.
“I reckon thet school’d be a fine place fer my Abner and Gincy,” mused Dan.
“Oh, it would,” urged Talitha delightedly. “And Gincy could room with me if I go back next year,” with an appealing glance at her father.
Sam Coyle frowned. “I reckon a year’s schoolin’s ’nough fer any gal. Hit’s a sight more’n I ever had,” he said surlily.
His neighbour gave a derisive laugh. “Can’t neither of us read or write no more’n if we war blind as bats. I hain’t any mind ter stand in the way of my chil’ren gettin’ larnin’, ’specially if hit ain’t costin’ me nothin’.”
The thrust went home, as the speaker intended, for it was well known that Martin and Talitha had paid for their year at school by their own exertions. Also that Sam Coyle had taken little of the added burdens—during their absence—upon his own shoulders.
“Gincy would like it ever so much,” pursued Talitha, anxious to preserve peace. “She’d especially like the singing.”
“She would, I reckon,” agreed her father proudly. “Gincy has a purty ear for a tune, and I’m aimin’ ter give her a chanct if I didn’t hev one myself,” he said, rising to take his departure.