Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said—
"What do you call work?"
"Why ain't that work?"
Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly—
"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer."
"Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"
The brush continued to move.
"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"
That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth—stepped back to note the effect—added a touch here and there—criticised the effect again, Ben watching every move, and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said—
"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."