“Oh, Joel Pepper!” she cried, whirling around, “is that really you!”
“Yes,” cried that individual, confidently, “it's I; oh, I say, Polly, I've had fun up-stairs, I tell you what!”
“Poor boy!” said Polly, compassionately.
“I wasn't a poor boy,” cried Joel, indignantly; “I had splendid things to eat; oh, my!” and he closed one eye and smacked his lips in the delightful memory.
“I know it,” said Polly, “and I'm so glad, Joel.”
“I don't suppose I'll ever get so many again,” observed Joel, reflectively, after a minute's pause, as one and another of the wondrous delicacies rose before his mind's eye; “not unless I have the measles again—say, Polly, can't I have 'em again?”
“Mercy, no!” cried Polly, in intense alarm, “I hope not.”
“Well, I don't,” said Joel, “I wish I could have 'em sixty—no—two hundred times, so there!”
“Well, mammy couldn't take care of you,” said Ben; “you don't know what you're sayin', Joe.”
“Well, then, I wish I could have the things without the measles,” said Joel, willing to accommodate; “only folks won't send 'em,” he added, in an injured tone.