"I wonder what kind of a farmer Abner Davis will call you now," said Marion, voicing my complacent pride.
At that moment loud guffaws, Abner's unmistakable laugh and his companion's, reached us from the wagon that had rounded the barn, and Paul came dashing back, breathless.
"Father," he called out, gleefully, "I heard him say that any man who would give half of such a fine crop to——"
"To what?" I asked, with eager interest as Paul stopped for breath.
"—to—the church—when——"
"Oh, hurry, Paul!" cried his mother.
"—potatoes were such a price—was——"
We waited in suspense, various flattering allusions to my generous gift suggesting themselves as that mischievous boy stopped to spin around on his heels and laugh in elfish glee.
"Was what?" we cried in chorus.