That broke up everything between Bub Ridlet and me.
Was Bub going to speak to a boy whose father stole from his father? Was I going to speak to Bub, when his father accused mine of stealing?
We’d been great chums, chestnutted, set snares, skated, fished and gone winters to the district school together. Our houses were within a stone’s throw of each other, and no others nearer than a quarter of a mile. Never had an evening come but I was at Bub’s or Bub with us.
The change came hard, and it came hard on our mothers.
Mrs. Ridlet would come over to ask if mother could spare a couple of eggs. Mother would run to the barn and come back with half a dozen, saying:
“Don’t mind about returning them. I’ve so many, I like to get rid of them.”
Mother would go to Mrs. Ridlet’s and say she’d like to borrow a pound or two of butter. Her cream didn’t “come good” these cold days. Bub’s mother would give her a big pat, with a bunch of grapes stamped on it.
“Don’t you fetch it back, Mrs. Pomfrey,” she would say. “I’ve so much that I shall never miss it.”
Now, when they met, they would not look at each other.
Six months passed, and we were lonesome as could be. But we would have bitten our tongues off rather than speak to the Ridlets.