“I suppose you have brought home a thousand dollars,” said Albert joking.
“A good deal more than that, Albert.”
“Honest Indian?”
“Yes, Albert, it is a sober fact. I’ll tell you all about it later. Now I am anxious to get home as soon as I can.”
When Ben reached the Winter farmhouse his mother and his stepfather had sat down to dinner. It was a plain boiled dinner, without a pudding, for since Jacob’s losses he had begun to pinch on the table.
In a New England farmhouse, whatever the parsimony of the farmer the table is not often affected.
“I ain’t got no appetite, Mrs. Winter,” said the farmer with a querulous expression. “The dinner don’t taste as good as usual.”
“I think the fault is in you, Mr. Winter,” replied his wife. “Your appetite has been very poor lately.”
“I’m on my way to the poorhouse,” said Jacob gloomily. “Things have been going very bad.”
“Your crops are as good as usual.”