“And where are the spoons now?” demanded Mrs. Burton, oblivious to all the witchery of the child’s spirit and appearance.
“I dunno,” said Budge, becoming an ordinary boy in an instant.
“I doeszh,” said Toddie—“I put ’em somewherezh, so when we wanted to play housh nexsht time we wouldn’t have to make b’lieve little sticks was spoons.”
“Show me immediately where they are,” commanded Mrs. Burton, rising from her chair.
“Den will you lend ’em to us nexsht time we playzh housh?” asked Toddie.
“No,” said Mrs. Burton, with cruel emphasis.
Toddie pouted, rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, and led the way to the rear of the garden where, in a hollow at the base of an old apple-tree, were the missing spoons. Wondering whether other valuable property might not be there, Mrs. Burton cautiously and with a stick examined the remaining contents of the hole, and soon discovered one of her damask napkins.
“Datsh goin’ to be our table-cloff,” explained Toddie, “an’ dat”—this, as an unopened pot of French mustard was unearthed “is pizzyves” (preserves).
Mrs. Burton placed her property in the pocket of her apron, led her two nephews into the house, seated them with violence upon a sofa, closed the doors noisily, drew a chair close to the prisoners, and said:
“Now, boys, you are to be punished for taking auntie’s things out of the house without permission.”