“Baked you some cakes—that is, Polly did, for this is Ben that's writing.”
“You needn't said that, Ben,” said Polly, dissatisfied; “we all baked 'em, I'm sure. 'And just as soon as you get well we do want you to come over and have the baking. We're real sorry you're sick—boneset's good for colds.”
“Oh, Ben!” said Mrs. Pepper, “I guess his father knows what to give him.”
“And oh! the bitter stuff!” cried Polly, with a wry face. “Well, it's hard work to write,” said Ben, yawning. “I'd rather chop wood.”
“I wish! knew how,” exclaimed Joel, longingly.
“Just you try every day; Ben'll teach you, Joe,” said his mother, eagerly, “and then I'll let you write.”
“I will!” cried Joe; “then, Dave, you'll see how I'll write—I tell you!”
“And I'm goin' to—ma, can't I?” said Davie, unwilling to be outdone.
“Yes, you may, be sure,” said Mrs. Pepper, delighted; “that'll make a man of you fast.”
“Oh, boys,” said Polly, lifting a very red face, “you joggle the table so I can't do anything.”