So Polly related the whole story of the cake, only taking breath when Joel blurted out, “I wish Mrs. Atkins had given you a bigger piece.”
“For shame, Joe,” reproved Polly, sitting down on the stool again, and taking both of his hands in hers. “She was very good to give me this. Yes, you shouldn’t have eaten it up when you found it, but brought it to me. Never mind if you were the big rooster, the cake didn’t belong to you. But now it is eaten up, why, it must be made up to Phronsie in some way. And I’ll tell you how; but you’ve got to work because you ate the cake, you know.”
Joel nodded his black head and wiped off the last tear. Since Polly was going to fix it, it was going to be all right, and Phronsie would be pleased. “Tell on, Polly,” he begged eagerly.
“Well,” said Polly, “you know Phronsie has been wanting a little pie ever since Mr. Beggs, the ragman, gave her that cunning little tin plate with the letters all around the edge. Now, if Mamsie will let us use the flour, I’ll—”
“You’ll bake her one,” cried Joel, in glee. “Oh, hooray!” he jumped to his feet and shouted.
David with Phronsie, their hands folded in their laps, sitting up stiffly on their chairs in the old kitchen, gave a great sigh of relief at that shout. Everything was quite right with Joel once more, to be sure.
“Well, but,” said Polly, “you’ve got to work, you know, Joel.”
“I’ll make the pie,” declared Joel, turning a somersault, “and roll out the crust, and everything.”
“Oh, no, Joe,” cried Polly, in horror; “the very idea! Why, you never made a pie in your life.”
“But I’m going to this time,” declared Joel, pausing on the edge of another somersault, and cocking up one black eye at her. “You said so yourself, Polly Pepper, that I’d got to work; so there, now.”