“I ain't a-goin to stay and be jawed that way,” said Sam. “You won't catch me pulling you out of a hole again. I wouldn't have you for a grandmother for all the world. Tom Baldwin told me, only yesterday, that you was always a-hectorin' him.”
Tom Baldwin was the son of Cynthy Ann, and consequently old Mrs. Payson's grandson.
“Did Tom Baldwin tell you that?” demanded the old lady abruptly, looking deeply incensed.
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, he's the ungratefullest cub that I ever sot eyes on,” exclaimed his indignant grandmother. “Arter all I've done for him. I'm knittin' a pair of socks for him this blessed minute. But he sha'n't have 'em. I'll give 'em to the soldiers, I vum. Did he say anything else?”
“Yes, he said he should be glad when you were gone.”
“I'll go right home and tell Cynthy Ann,” exclaimed Mrs. Payson, “an' if she don't w'ip him I will. I never see such a bad set of boys as is growin' up. There ain't one on 'em that isn't as full of mischief as a nut is of meat. I'll come up with them, as true as I live.”
Full of her indignation, Mrs. Payson gave up her proposed call on Mrs. Thompson, and, turning about, hurried home to lay her complaint before Cynthy Ann.
“I'm glad she's gone,” said Sam, looking after her, as with resolute steps she trudged along, punching the snow vigorously with the point of her blue cotton umbrella. “I pity Tom Baldwin; if I had such a grandmother as that, I'd run away to sea. That's so!”