“Put you to bed!” exclaimed Mr. Goodworth. “Why, bless the boy! what’s come to him now? He used always to be wanting to stop up.”
“I want to go to bed, and get to to-morrow, and have my picture-book,” was the weary and whimpering answer.
“I’ll be hanged, if I don’t want to go to bed too!” soliloquized the old gentleman under his breath, “and get to to-morrow, and have my ‘Times’ at breakfast. I’m as bad as Zack, every bit!”
“Grandpapa,” continued the child, more wearily than before, “I want to whisper something in your ear.”
Mr. Goodworth bent down a little. Zack looked round cunningly towards his father—then putting his mouth close to his grandfather’s ear, communicated the conclusion at which he had arrived, after the events of the day, in these words—
“I say, granpapa, I hate Sunday!”