“Then, I don’t want ’em rolled up,” said Joel, trying to get away from her long fingers, “and I’m almost a man, too. See how big I am, Miss Miranda.”
But, notwithstanding, Miranda went on pinching and rolling the sleeve-ends, and at last she threw Joel’s little blue cotton jacket and trousers into the nearest tub. “There,” she said, surveying him and her work, “at least, you’re clean.”
“An’ I’ve thought of some work he could do,” said old Mrs. Peters, looking in at the door.
“That’s th’ best thing of all,” said Miranda, soaping the stains vigorously; “I can wash an’ iron, but I can’t pick out work for a boy. What is’t, Ma? It’s got to be somethin’ not near to Pa,” she said in a lower tone.
“Your Pa can’t hear nor see this,” said Mrs. Peters. “It’s to pick over apples down cellar. They’re all a-rottin’ an’ spilin’ like all possessed.”
“The very thing!” exclaimed Miranda, joyfully. “Now, you run along, Joel, with Ma. She’ll set you to work.”
It was impossible for Joel to run in the garments that he now was in, but that seemed to him of small importance, since a man was not supposed to run down the cellar stairs.
So, down he went, and presently he was seated in the Peterses’ cellar on an old butter-tub, turned upside down, and before a great pile of apples, from which he was to pick out the decayed ones.
“And mind, Joel, don’t put any specked ones in there.” Old Mrs. Peters pointed a long thin finger over to the big basket set for the purpose.
“No, I won’t,” said Joel, all his eyes on the great pile of apples, and his mouth watering.