They were within the cluttered kitchen now and, as is usually the case with girls of Nancy’s temperament, she was much distressed at the looks of the place. In fact, she was making frantic but futile efforts to right things.
“What’s the matter with Sam?” again asked the man, curiously.
“Oh, nothing,” replied Ted. “Only it isn’t your name.”
“No? How do you know?” persisted the stranger, quizzically.
“You don’t look like a Sam,” said Ted, kicking one heel against the other to hide his embarrassment. He hadn’t intended saying all that.
The man laughed heartily, and for the moment Nancy forgot the upset kitchen. But the dinner!
“I hope your dinner isn’t gone,” remarked the stranger who wanted to be called Sam.
“Oh, no,” replied Nancy laconically, avoiding Ted’s discouraged look. “That was only some—some meat we were cooking.”
“Can’t keep house and 'tend store without spoiling something. But I feel it was somewhat my fault. Suppose we lock up and trot down to the corner for a dish of ice cream?” he suggested. “It’s just warm enough today for cream; don’t you think so?”
“Oh, let’s!” chirped Ted. A hungry boy is ever an object of pity.