“Yes’m,” Jack muttered.
“Everyone come in,” Mrs. Jones invited. “We’ll thrash this out right here and now. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s nonsense!”
The Cubs trooped into the warm kitchen, fairly overflowing the tiny room. Mr. Hatfield, Babe, Chips and Fred found chairs. Dan perched himself on the corner of the wood box by the stove. The others stood.
“Jack, I’d try to switch a little sense into you, but I know now it doesn’t do a mite of good,” Mrs. Jones sighed. “Now what’s wrong with you anyhow?”
“Nothin’.”
“Then why don’t you speak up and tell Mr. Hatfield and the Cubs what they want to know?”
“They turned me in!”
“I reckon it was mighty inconsiderate of ’em to give you another chance,” the widow said, her brittle voice edged with sarcasm. “You’ve had a hard lot here. I’ve kept you chopping wood every day and helping with the housework. At night you’ve had to do your lessons.”
“The work wasn’t so hard,” Jack muttered.
“You’ve been chained to the house—never could go away—”