"What for? We want to go to New York."
"Well, you see I don't reckon you'll get as far as that without a slat of money, an' father wants to put you fellers where you'll be took care of for a while."
Jack stopped suddenly, allowed the baby to slip from his arms under the shade of an apple-tree whose blossoms filled the air with perfume, as he said angrily,—
"Louis sha'n't be taken to the poorhouse! I'll walk my feet off before anybody but his mother shall get him."
"You couldn't go as far as New York, an' if he's so hungry you'd better let him have some bread an' milk."
"How long before your father'll be back?"
"It'll take him a couple of hours to carry the boat down to the Neck, an' that's the only place where she can lie without gettin' stove."
"Then we'll go into your house long enough to feed the baby, an' I'll leave before he comes."
"All right," and Tom took up the line of march once more. "I don't know as I blame you, for Thornton's ain't the nicest place that ever was, an' I'd rather haul seaweed for a month than stay there one night."
Jack looked wistfully at the little farmhouse with its beds of old maid's pinks and bachelor's buttons in front of the muslin-curtained windows, thinking, perhaps, that shelter should be given him there rather than among the town's paupers; but he made no remark, and a few moments later they were standing in the cool kitchen while Tom explained to his mother under what circumstances he had made the acquaintance of the strangers.