The boy went home to his mother in high exultation.
“The doctor wants me to look after Ben for him,” he announced. “He is going to show me the dressings, and he says all he wants is cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. But how he is to get good cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food, are more than I can tell.”
“Good cheer!” cried Dick. “He'll not lack for company. How many has she now, mother? A couple of dozen, more or less?”
“There are thirteen of them already, poor thing.”
“Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won't allow the figure to remain at that.”
“Indeed, I am thinking it will not,” said his mother, speaking with the confidence of intimate knowledge.
“Well,” replied Dick, with a judicial air, “it's a question whether it's worse to defy the fate that lurks in that unlucky number, or to accept the doubtful blessing of another twig to the already overburdened olive tree.”
“Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four babies and all.”
“Four, mother! Surely that's an unusual number even for the prolific Mrs. Fallows!”
“Whisht, laddie!” said his mother, in a shocked tone, “don't talk foolishly.”