"You don't want it all—the luck, I mean, not the stew," she said severely. "Anyway, you're not getting the stew yet. Momma's particular how long it cooks."
"Not for nigh an hour," smiled Pleasant from the stove.
"Then I'll tighten my belt like a starving explorer," cried the boy.
The old woman turned about, and waved a tin spoon at them both.
"If you're that hungry you can't wait, Frank Burton, I guess Phyl'd better take you out to the barn an' feed you hay. There's more than hosses and cattle eats hay."
Phyllis laughed.
"There you are, Frank. That's deadly insult. What you going to do 'bout it? Do you hear what momma's calling you?"
The youth fingered one ear ruefully.
"They must have grown some," he said doubtfully. Then he looked up with a laugh. "Guess maybe she's right, though. Come on, Phyl, sweet hay's not half bad fodder for a hungry—— Say, if you come right along, I'll tell you all about the farm while I eat it. How's that?"
Phyllis needed no second bidding, and, together, they passed out of the kitchen.