“O dear me! there go those potatoes!” exclaimed Polly, in vexation; “because I told you, there’s a baby in there.”
“A baby!” repeated Ben, again.
“Yes, yes, we’ve just got it,” said Polly, setting down the dish, and then hurrying to pick up the two potatoes on the floor, “it only came this morning. Oh, Ben, don’t you see.” She ran up to throw her arms around him. “It’s asleep, and the boys must have their dinner, and we mustn’t make any noise, and—and—oh, I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I cut the bread.” And off Polly ran to get the big bread-knife.
“There’s one thing I want to know,” said Ben, going after her with slow but determined steps. “I’ll cut the bread, Polly; here, give me the knife.” And he took it out of her hand. “Whose baby is it?”
“Oh, a poor woman’s; she tumbled over the stove, and Doctor Fisher took us there, and we brought her home, the baby, I mean, at least Mamsie did,” said Polly, jumbling up the words so fast that Ben wrinkled up his brows trying to understand it all. “O dear me. Yes, yes, Joel, I’m going to bring the bread as soon as I can; do let me cut it, Ben.”
“You two chaps will just wait until you can get this bread,” said Ben, brandishing the big knife, and then cutting off the slices as neatly as possible; “come along and get the plate, Joe,” as he piled them on.
“Whickets, I guess I will,” exclaimed Joel, tumbling out of his chair, where he had been impatiently drumming on the table with his fork, Polly never allowing the boys to begin to eat dinner till they were all ready together.
“What did you say, Joel?” reproved Polly. “Oh, Mamsie wouldn’t like it one single bit to hear you talk so.”
“I won’t,” began Joel, seizing the bread-plate so vehemently that a slice immediately flew off to the floor.
“Now, just see that!” exclaimed Polly, in consternation, “and bread is so dear, we can’t waste it.”