At supper—referred to by Mrs. Sellars again in the tone of one remembering a lesson, as a cold col-la-tion, with the accent on the “tion”—I sat between Miss Sellars and the lean young lady, with Aunt and Uncle Gutton opposite to us. It was remarked with approval that I did not appear to be hungry.
“Had too many kisses afore he started,” suggested Uncle Gutton, with his mouth full of cold roast pork and pickles. “Wonderfully nourishing thing, kisses, eh? Look at mother and me. That's all we live on.”
Aunt Gutton sighed, and observed that she had always been a poor feeder.
The watery-eyed young man, observing he had never tasted them himself—at which sally there was much laughter—said he would not mind trying a sample if the lean young lady would kindly pass him one.
The lean young lady opined that, not being used to high living, it might disagree with him.
“Just one,” pleaded the watery-eyed young man, “to go with this bit of cracklin'.”
The lean young lady, amid renewed applause, first thoughtfully wiping her mouth, acceded to his request.
The watery-eyed young man turned it over with the air of a gourmet.
“Not bad,” was his verdict. “Reminds me of onions.” At this there was another burst of laughter.
“Now then, ain't Paul goin' to have one?” shouted Uncle Gutton, when the laughter had subsided.