“Come, Bob, no slang. You know that mother doesn’t like it. By the way, talkin’ of mothers, is it on Wednesday or Thursday that you expect your mother?”
“Thursday, my boy,” replied Bob, with a bright look. “Ha! that will be a day for me!”
“So it will, Bob, I’m glad for your sake,” returned Tim with a sigh, which was a very unusual expression of feeling for him. His friend at once understood its significance.
“Tim, my boy, I’m sorry for you. I wish I could split my mother in two and give you half of her.”
“Yes,” said Tim, somewhat absently, “it is sad to have not one soul in the world related to you.”
“But there are many who care for you as much as if they were relations,” said Bob, taking his friend’s arm as they approached the house.
“Come along, come along, youngsters,” shouted Mr Merryboy from the window, “the dinner’s gettin’ cold, and granny’s gettin’ in a passion. Look sharp. If you knew what news I have for you you’d look sharper.”
“What news, sir?” asked Bob, as they sat down to a table which did not exactly “groan” with viands—it was too strong for that—but which was heavily weighted therewith.
“I won’t tell you till after dinner—just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite.”
“But suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn’t it?” said Tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer’s eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping.