“My mother is the best woman in the world!” said Tom, warmly.
“I don’t doubt it—not a mite. She’s got a pretty good son, and when you see a good son you’ll generally find he has a good mother.”
“I am glad you have so good an opinion of me, Mr. Brush, but I’m afraid I don’t deserve it.”
“Suppose we argy that point.”
“Never mind,” said Tom, smiling, “I’m perfectly willing you should think so. How soon do you think I can write a letter home?”
“There’s a place about a hundred miles further on. We’ll get there within a week. When you get there, you can write a long letter.”
“I will; I will try to make up for lost time. I shall have a great deal to write.”
“So you will, Tom.”
“Sha’n’t you write, too, Mr. Brush?”
“I haven’t got anybody to write to,” answered Peter Brush.