“You forgot how he got back your watch and papers,” Mrs. Rushton indignantly reminded him.
“I don’t forget that if it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t have lost them,” snapped Aaron. “Who 98 was it that hit the horse with a ball and caused the runaway that might have cost me my life? Who was it that painted Jed Muggs’ team red, white and blue on the Fourth of July? Who was it that nearly caused a panic on the common, when he set those mice loose among the women?”
Mrs. Rushton knew only too well who it was, and she took refuge in generalities.
“He’s just the dearest boy, anyway,” she declared defiantly. “He’s fond of mischief like all boys of his age, but he never did a mean or dishonorable thing in his life. And didn’t I hear you tell Mr. Barrett once, just after you got your papers back, that your nephews were the finest boys in Oldtown?”
“If I did, I must have been out of my mind,” growled Aaron, as a twinge of neuralgia made him wince. “But I’ll admit that the boys are angels. Heaven forgive me for lying. Go ahead and read your letter.”
But Mrs. Rushton had already torn the envelope open and was deep in the reading of its contents.
“Why,” she remarked, after a paragraph or two, “Fred says here that Teddy was writing a letter to you at the same time. I wonder if it’s among these,” and she turned over the other letters in her lap. “Oh, here it is, sure enough,” she added as she saw Teddy’s scrawling writing.
99Aaron Rushton himself was somewhat startled at the unusual occurrence.
“For me?” he growled, reaching for it. “What has he been doing to me now that he has to apologize for?”
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” protested Mrs. Rushton. “Can’t a boy write to his own uncle without having an apology to make?”