Carl and the Cotton Gin

by Sara Ware Bassett

Carl shook with laughter.

"Oh, Mother, it's all so rich—so perfectly corking!" he cried. "You couldn't half appreciate it if I told you."

"I could try," came curtly from Mrs. McGregor.

But her son did not heed her.

"To think of that being Mr. John Coulter," chuckled he. "And, oh, the things I said to him! I tremble to recall them. I told him Corcoran was a low-down skunk, I know that. And I gushed on a lot about Hal and Louise. I only wish I could remember what I did say. Jove! He must have split his sides laughing."

"When? When did you do all this?" interrogated the lad's mother impatiently.

"Oh, when was it?" ruminated Carl, struggling to collect his scattered wits. "It seems ages and ages ago that all that happened. It was before Christmas, I'm certain of that."

"And you went riding with Mr. Coulter? I heard you saying something about it."

"Yes."

"You actually went to ride with him?"