"Where's the meat," thought Bert.
Silas Wilson put a moderate portion of beans on a large plate, flanking it with a thin, consumptive-looking sausage.
"Help yourself to potatoes," he said, as he handed the plate to Bert.
Bert availed himself of the invitation, and helped himself to a potato in that condition known as soggy. He tried to eat it, but, though fond of potatoes, he left it almost entire on his plate. This, however, was not all. There was a plate of rye-bread on the table, from which Bert helped himself to a slice. It was apparently two or three days old, and needed something to make it palatable.
"Please give me some butter," asked Bert, not having observed that this was a prohibited article on the Wilsons' dinner table.
"There ain't none," answered Mrs. Wilson promptly.
"I beg pardon. I hadn't noticed," said Bert, blushing.
"We never have butter at dinner," explained Silas Wilson. "It's apt to lead to humors, particularly in boys, isn't it, Mis' Wilson?"
"So I've always heard, Silas. Besides, as we have it at breakfast and supper, that's enough. It goes fast enough, even then. Why, we used most a pound last week."
"And butter twenty-seven cents a pound!" chimed in the farmer. "Why, it's extravagant!"