“But we didn’t try,” put in Tom. “This was an accident.”
“Come and see my kitchen!” repeated Mrs. Peterkin firmly and she seemed capable of taking them each by an ear and leading them in.
“You—you’d better go,” advised Mr. Peterkin gently.
So they went, and truly the sight that met their eyes showed them that Mrs. Peterkin had some excuse for being angry. On the stove there had been cooking a large kettle of sauce made from early apples. The window near the stove had been left open and through the casement the ball, thrown with all Joe’s strength, had flown, landing fairly into the middle of the soft sauce.
The result may easily be imagined. It splattered all over the floor, half way up on the side walls, and there were even spots of the sauce on the ceiling. The top of the stove was covered with it, and as the lids were hot they had burned the sugar to charcoal, while the kitchen was filled with smoke and fumes.
“There!” cried Mrs. Peterkin, as she waved her hand at the scene of ruin. “Did you ever see such a kitchen as that? And it was clean scrubbed only this morning! Did you ever see anything like that? Tell me!”
Joe and Tom were both forced to murmur that they had never beheld such a sight before. And they added with equal but unexpressed truth that they hoped they never would again.
“I’m willing to pay for the damage,” said Joe once more, and his hand went toward his pocket. “It was an accident.”