“Yes,” screamed Joel, quickly, and picking at the nails with all his might.
But little David’s fingers got in each other’s way so much, over this new panic, started by Ben’s voice, that he made very little headway, and mixed up the pile of nails dreadfully.
“You’re putting in crooked ones,” said Joel, twitching out one from the straight specimens. “Hah,—Hoh, just see that, Dave Pepper!”
“O dear me!” exclaimed poor little David, quite overcome with mortification.
“I’ll pick ’em out,” said Joel, generously. “There,—there ain’t a single bad one in, now.”
So David, after assuring himself that this was really so, began to breathe easily once more, and the two pairs of small fingers kept busily on at their task, till the first thing they knew, heavy steps were heard ascending the crooked stairs and a long face appeared, its keen gray eyes spying them at once.
“Well, boys!” said Mrs. Blodgett, walking along the floor of the loft, “now you must come in to dinner.”
“Dinner!” screamed Joel, hopping up to his feet, and making nails fly in every direction. Little Davie sat quite still, clasping his hands silently, “Oh, are we to stay to dinner, Mrs. Blodgett?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Blodgett, her long face, with its high cheek bones, taking on a smile. “I’m going to keep you to dinner. Come, Betsey is peeling the potatoes, so you must hurry.”
“Did Mamsie say we’re to stay?” asked David, trembling with delight, so that he could hardly get to his feet.