"Goin' right along down on my own account,
ma'am," was his invariable excuse. "Might just as well run your
errands at the same time." Also, whenever he chopped a supply of
kindling wood for his own use he chopped as much more and filled
the oilcloth-covered box which stood by the stove in the Armstrong
kitchen. He would not come in and sit down, however, in spite of
Barbara's and her mother's urgent invitation; he was always too
"busy" for that.
But the time came when he did come in, actually come in and sit
down to a meal. Barbara, of course, was partially responsible for
this amazing invitation, but it was Heman Taylor's old brindle
tomcat which really brought it to pass. The cat in question was a
disreputable old scalawag, with tattered ears and a scarred hide,
souvenirs of fights innumerable, with no beauty and less morals,
and named, with appropriate fitness, "Cherub."
It was a quarter to twelve on a Sunday morning and Jed was
preparing his dinner. The piece de resistance of the dinner was,
in this instance, to be a mackerel. Jed had bought the mackerel of
the fish peddler the previous afternoon and it had been reposing on
a plate in the little ancient ice-chest which stood by the back
door of the Winslow kitchen. Barbara, just back from Sunday school
and arrayed in her best, saw that back door open and decided to
call.
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