Kit did not reply, for he saw no advantage in discussion.
"You'll get a dollar a week and your board, and you can't do better. I reckon dinner is about ready now."
Kit felt ready for the dinner, for the morning's ride had sharpened his appetite. So when, five minutes later, he was summoned to the table, he willingly accepted the invitation.
"This is my new 'prentice, Mrs. Bickford," said the blacksmith, by way of introduction, to a spare, red headed woman, who was bustling about the kitchen, where the table was spread.
Mrs. Bickford eyed Kit critically.
"He's one of the kid glove kind, by his looks," she said. "You don't expect to get much work out of him, do you?"
"I reckon I will, or know the reason why," responded Bickford, significantly.
"Set right down and I'll dish up the victuals," said Mrs. Bickford. "We don't stand on no ceremony here. What's your name, young man?"
"People call me Kit."
"Sounds like a young cat. It's rediculous to give a boy such a name. First thing you know I'll be calling you Kitty."