"Do as you're told, and don't grumble, old top!" laughingly replied
Tom. "Hope your wounds and sprains and bruises and so forth will
be much better tomor——-I mean, later in the day. It's 2 A.M. now.
Good night!"
"Good night! I'll see you later."
It was arranged that Doctor Kane, Tom, and the boys should spend the remainder of the night there; Mrs. Kenyon would not hear of any one of them going over to Tom's house at that hour. So the doctor retired to the spare bedroom, Sherwood and Arthur occupied a broad couch or divan in the little parlor, where Tom Walsh and his young cousin slept even more comfortably on an extra mattress on the floor. Everyone was in good spirits, although tired and very sleepy; and the sun was high in the heavens before any one of that household awoke.
Anyone? No, not quite; for, with characteristic thoughtfulness, Tom Walsh, waking earlier than the others, stole quietly out into the kitchen and began to make the fire and grind the coffee for breakfast. Mrs. Kenyon, hearing him, came downstairs at once. She, alone, had scarcely slept at all that night. Her fears for Ralph's health, as well as the thought of having soon to go all the way to New York with Doctor Kane and undergo an operation, had banished slumber. Seeing Walsh engaged in his kindly efforts, she smiled as she laid a restraining hand on his arm.
"Tom Walsh, you dear man, go right back and get your forty winks!" she said. "What do you mean by this?—-and in my house, too!"
"You think I can't cook breakfast, eh? I want you to know I'm a fust-class cook!" said Tom, in genial protest. "Sit down there, now, and let me——-"
"I won't! You're a good soul, Tom, and I know you'll make a husband that any sensible woman'll be proud of, because I can see you've been well trained. By the way, Tom, how's Sue Turpin nowadays? And when will she name the happy day?"
Tom colored up to the roots of his thin, sandy, curly hair. So Mrs. Kenyon, too, had heard of his wooing of Susan Turpin, the miller's daughter! Well, why not, since it had become a pleasant topic of gossip in the countryside? But he made no immediate reply, except a grin, and Mrs. Kenyon continued tactfully:
"Yes, an excellent husband, Tom—-but never a cook. Your dear old mother told me, the last time she came over to see me, that you can no more cook than you can fly! And she thinks you're an angel, too! So just you hand me that coffee-pot and that frying-pan, and trot out to the poultry house and get me some fresh eggs."
"All right, if you say so," assented Tom. "I'll feed the horse, too. Suppose Ralph won't be up an' around for quite a spell yet?"