"Well, mother," said Ned, respectfully, "I didn't mean to; but Jim is a regular rusher to hit."
"Edward!" said his father. "Slang again? I must take you in hand, myself."
"He is dreadful!" whispered one of his sisters. "He called Sallie Hemans a bricktop. Her hair is red—"
"I see how it is," continued his father. "The sooner you are out in the country, the better. Football, indeed! Baseball, fencing, boxing! All that sort of thing! What you need is exercise. Fishing, I should say, and plenty of good, fresh country air. Something beside books and school."
"I'll tell you what, then," responded Ned. "I'll be glad enough to get there. All the colts I rode last summer'll be a year older now. I'm going to try 'em, and see if they can send me to grass, like they did then."
"Edward! What grammar!" groaned his aunt. "His Grandmother Webb will attend to that."
"I have my serious doubts," remarked Uncle Jack. "She has not altogether reformed her own neighbourhood. The country is the place for him, however. If he isn't sent away he may stir up a war with England, and it would be expensive."
From that the table talk drifted back to the terrible battle-ships and the new inventions.
"It is dreadful!" remarked Uncle Jack. "I used to think I knew, generally, what I was eating, but I have given it up. They have invented artificial eggs. The butter we get is a mystery; they make almost anything out of corn. The newspapers are printed on stuff that's made of cord-wood, and this new imitation silver is nothing but potter's clay, boiled down, somehow. It tires me out to think of it all."
"I don't care," said Ned. "Hurrah for the country, and for the colts, and for some fishing!"