"I never heard of a hanker; it looks some like a kettle-hook. Let's buy it; see how nicely it fits on Fly's shoulder."
"It would look better for Fly to sit on the anchor," said Mrs. Allen, smiling. "It is droll enough to see such a big thing walking off with a little girl under it. Come, children, we have bought all we can carry."
"Thank you kindly, lady," said the evergreen woman, with another courtesy.
"I don't see why she need thank you kindly, auntie," said Dotty. "You wouldn't have bought her wreaths if you hadn't liked 'em."
They walked through a long space lined with such nice things that the children's mouths watered—oranges, figs, grapes, pears, French chestnuts larger than oil-nuts, and, as if that were not enough, delicious-looking pies, cakes, cold ham, and doughnuts. On little charcoal stoves stood coffee-pots; and there was a great clattering of plates and cups and saucers, which men were washing in little pans, and wiping on rather dark towels.
"It strikes me I should enjoy going into one of those cuddy-holes and eating my dinner," said Horace. "I feel about starved."
"You have a right to be hungry. It is two o'clock. How would you like some oysters? In here is a large room, with tables; rather more comfortable than these 'cuddy-holes,' as you call them."
"Only not nice," said Prudy. "O, Horace, if you should go once to an oyster saloon in Boston, you'd see the difference!"
"The probability is, I've been in Boston saloons twice to your once, ma'am."
Which was correct. She had been once, and he twice.