“We are going to stay to dinner,” announced Joel, boldly; “Mrs. Blodgett said so.”
“Well, you can’t,” said Ben, shortly “for Mamsie expects you home.”
Joel didn’t stop to think, but dashed wildly into the kitchen and up against Mrs. Blodgett’s big blue-checked apron. “He’s going to send us home, Ben is,” he gasped.
“What’s that?” Deacon Blodgett, catching the words, broke in. “Hey, Ben?”
“Yes, sir,” said Ben, in the doorway, with little Davie hanging to his hand, “the boys ought to go home, for Mamsie expects them.”
“Oh, let ’em sit down and eat,” said the deacon, sociably, “There, Joel, stop feeling bad, you h’ain’t got to go home. Come, Ben, set down, and here’s your chair, Davie.” He was dropping into his own, while he talked.
“No, sir,” said Ben, firmly.
It seemed as if he could never get the words out, when he saw the Deacon’s face. Maybe he wouldn’t give him any more work if he didn’t mind him; for there was a little black cloud coming on the high forehead. And Ben shivered from head to foot as he stood there.
“Set down, set down,” Deacon Blodgett, pointing with his fork, kept repeating.
But Ben shook his head, while Joel sobbed in the depths of Mrs. Blodgett’s big apron, and Davie hung helplessly to Ben’s hand.