"I don't s'pose I'd ought to," said the Deacon; and he walked to the head of the table, and stood there looking down at his young guests with a queer little smile. "I ain't much of a speechifier," said he, "but I want to ask you boys a question. Which would ye rather be, when ye get ready to take your fathers' places, honest men or rogues?"
Every boy caught his breath. The old eight-day clock in the corner ticked painfully loud.
"The man'll be nigh about the same as the boy," went on the Deacon. "Now which'll you be, boys, rogues or honest men?"
"Hon—honest men," cried Con O'Brien.
Later on he said he couldn't help it, with the Deacon looking at him, and the Deacon's wife wiping her glasses in that anxious way; but he meant it all the same. And they all followed his lead, as they ever did, every boy.
"That's right," said Deacon Gammon—"that's just right; and we won't say another word about it."
"No, don't," said his wife.
But, after all, it was Con O'Brien who said the right thing in the right place, as he picked up his basket, which wasn't entirely empty, in the porch.
"Whenever you want any help about picking your cherries, Deacon Gammon, call on us," said he. "We'll be sure to come when you sind for us, and we won't come before, honest Injun!"
"That's right," said the Deacon—"that's right."