“Seven won't go into a hundred evenly,” said Harry, having a horror of fractions.
“Well, I guess we can fix matters if it doesn't,” was Regie's scornful response. “I think it is very kind of you,” turning to Miss Vale. “When shall we give it to them?”
“It seems to me to-morrow would be a good day. Are the men to have a Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Indeed they are,” Nan answered. “They are to have turkey, and mashed potatoes, and cranberries that mother has made in beautiful moulds, and mince-pie, and lots of things. They'll all be able to come to the table too, except the captain.”
“It's just as well that he can't come,” Regie explained, with the air of an experienced doctor. “He isn't strong enough to eat turkey dna hearty things like that.”
“He's to have some very nice gruel, though,” Nan confided, and as though she knew more about it all than both the toys put together; as indeed she did, for she had been present at many a conference between Sister Julia and her mother regarding the dinner.
The children made a long call, and no one knows how much longer they would have lingered in Miss Vale's sunny room, looking at some fine photographs of Mr. Avery's, which the maid had brought up from the parlour, if the old clock in the hall had not struck two very clearly and distinctly.
“Is it as late as that?” cried Nan; “we shall miss our dinner altogether if we don't go home this minute.”
That was sufficient to start the boys, and the children took their departure, Miss Vale promising to send the money down that night in separate envelopes, so that Harry should not be bothered by the difficult division of one hundred by seven.