“An’ what of it?” asked his father.
“Did you spy on us through the window?” asked his mother.
“No, I was over in the tool-house,” replied the boy; “and when I got nigh enough to look in at the window you was all set down to table.”
“Land’s sakes! How d’you know Lucy set the table?”
“Because everything’s so close to the edge. She ain’t tall enough to push ’em on very far.”
“But how’d you know Molly fried the pancakes?”
“Because most every one was cracked across, or messed about, when it was bein’ turned. You don’t do that, Ma, with the turner—but Molly always tries to turn ’em with a knife.”
“Sakes alive! That’s the livin’ truth! But how’d you come to figger out about me writin’ to Gran’ma?”
“There’s ink on your finger, Ma; and Gran’ma is the only person you ever write to.”
“Land’s sakes! That’s reel smart.”