Mrs. Pepper, glancing across the table-cloth at Jimmy, saw something that made her say, “Come here a minute,” and as he shuffled around to her side, she whispered to him, “What is it that makes you afraid to save your cake?”
Jimmy’s freckled face got very red. He scrubbed his rusty shoes back and forth in the grass. Then he said, “I didn’t want you folks to see.”
“You want to give it to somebody?”
Jimmy nodded his tow head, glad enough that he didn’t have to speak any more.
“You may,” said Mrs. Pepper kindly, “do just as you like with it.”
“May I?”
“Indeed you may,” declared Mother Pepper. “So don’t hide your cake under the table-cloth—but keep it on your plate, and you shall have a paper to do it up in when we all get through.”
“I don’t want no paper,” said Jimmy bluntly.
“Oh, Jimmy, you can’t carry it home in your hand.”
“I ain’t going to carry it home—and the boy won’t mind.”