“I will procure you a rocking-chair,” said Mr. Middleton, sighing at the thought of the extra expense. “I will now leave you to any little preparations you may desire to make. I will call you when supper is ready.”
So Tom was left alone.
Our hero sat down on the bed and reflected.
“I don’t fancy the old man’s looks,” he thought. “He looks mean, and so does his wife. I have an idea they’ll try to starve me, but if they do I’ll make it lively for them, or my name isn’t Tom Temple. I know, from what Sharp told me, that they are going to get a steep price for my board, and I don’t want them to make too much out of me. This bed is as hard as a brick. No wonder—it’s filled with straw. I suppose mattresses come too high. I see I shall have to give some lessons to my worthy friends on the subject of keeping house. I’ve got plenty of money, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t go in for comfort. I could stand hard fare if there was any need of it, but there isn’t.”
Soon the feet of Mr. Middleton were heard on the stairs.
“My young friend,” he said, as Tom opened the door at his gentle tap, “supper is ready.”
“My old friend,” said Tom promptly, “I am ready, too.”
“What a very extraordinary boy!” thought Mr. Middleton. “Why should he call me old? I am older than he, to be sure, but I am not aged.”
He led the way into the dining-room. Mrs. Middleton was already seated at the table. It did not look particularly inviting. There was a plate of bread, cut in thin slices, a very small plate of butter, a plate of consumptive looking gingerbread and half a dozen slices of meat about the thickness of a wafer.
“Not much chance of overeating myself here,” thought Tom. “This won’t do at all.”