CHAPTER XXXI
TEA WITH AUNT PATSY.
Alone in her lonely little house, in the closing twilight, Aunt Patsy had put up the leaf of her rickety pine table, and, having placed upon it a pewter plate and a cracked teacup, was busy preparing her humble supper,—bending over the hearth, toasting a crust of bread on a fork, beside a simmering teapot,—when the door was softly pushed open and somebody looked in.
“Who’s there?” shrieked the old woman, dropping her toast and starting up in affright.
“Nobody but me; don’t be scared, Aunt Patsy.” And the visitor glided into the room and softly closed the door again.
“You! Jack Hazard!” she exclaimed, recovering her self-possession. “Bless ye, lad, I’m always glad to see ye. But vicious boys have played so many mean tricks on me, I’m awful skittish! It’s gittin’ so dark I didn’t know ye at fust. Or is it that odd-lookin’ hat you’ve got on?”
Jack laughed, and said he thought it must be the hat that disguised him. “It’s a borrowed one; I’m great on borrowing hats! Did I ever tell you how I made free with Syd Chatford’s once? A very quiet and accommodating gentleman was kind enough to let me take this right off from his head; he’s standing out in the open field bareheaded now, waiting for me to return it.”
“What are ye talkin’? Set down, won’t ye, and keep a poor body company for a little while? You’re jest in time to take a cup o’ tea with me, and eat a piece of Mis’ Chatford’s pie ye brought me. I wish I had a candle; but I’m too poor to indulge in luxuries. I can start up a flash of fire, though.”
“Don’t start it up for me,” replied Jack. “I prefer to sit in the dark.”
“But we must have a trifle of a blaze, to see to eat by; besides, I want a glimpse o’ your face. Friends’ faces ain’t so common a sight with me that I can afford to miss seein’ ’em when they do look in. How’s Mis’ Chatford, and dear Miss Felton?”