“Well,” said Mr. Tidditt, when they reached the Whittaker gate, “I guess she knows her place now; hey, Cy? I cal'late she'll be careful who she keeps after school from now on.”
“Didn't use no profane language, did you, Cy?” asked Bailey. “I hope not, 'cause she might have you took up just out of spite. Did she ask your pardon for her actions?”
“No!” roared the captain savagely. Then, banging the gate behind him, he strode up the yard and into the house.
Bos'n came home a half hour later. Captain Cy was alone in the sitting room, seated in his favorite rocker and moodily staring at nothing in particular. The girl gazed at him for a moment and then climbed into his lap.
“I wrote my fifty lines, Uncle Cyrus,” she said. “Teacher said I'd done them very nicely, too.”
The captain grunted.
“Uncle Cy,” whispered Bos'n, putting her arms around his neck, “I'm awful sorry I was so bad.”
“Bad? Who—you? You couldn't be bad if you wanted to. Don't talk that way or I'll say somethin' I hadn't ought to.”
“Yes, I could be bad, too. I was bad. I whispered.”
“Whispered! What of it? That ain't nothin'. When I was a young one in school I used to whis— . . . Hum! Well, anyhow, don't you think any more about it. 'Tain't worth while.”