“Nat says you would like to get some dinner,” she said.
“Yes,” answered Carl. “I hope you’ll excuse my applying to you, but your son tells me there is no hotel near by.”
“The nearest one is three miles away from here.”
“I don’t think I can hold out so long,” said Carl, smiling.
“Sit right down with Nat,” said the farmer’s wife, hospitably. “Mr. Sweetser won’t be home for half an hour. We’ve got enough, such as it is.”
Evidently Mrs. Sweetser was a good cook. The dinner consisted of boiled mutton, with several kinds of vegetables. A cup of tea and two kinds of pie followed.
It was hard to tell which of the two boys did fuller justice to the meal. Nat had the usual appetite of a healthy farm boy, and Carl, in spite of his recent anxieties, and narrow escape from serious peril, did not allow himself to fall behind.
“Your mother’s a fine cook!” said Carl, between two mouthfuls.
“Ain’t she, though?” answered Nat, his mouth full of pie.
When Carl rose from the table he feared that he had eaten more than his little stock of money would pay for.