"Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried Barbara, wringing her hands in consternation.
Jed surveyed the ruin of the "poor man's pudding" and gazed
thoughtfully at the top of the fence over which the marauder had
disappeared.
"Hum," he mused. "H-u-u-m. . . . Well, I did cal'late I could get
a meal out of sight pretty fast myself, but--but--I ain't in that
critter's class."
"But your dinner!" wailed Barbara, almost in tears. "He's spoiled
ALL your dinner! Oh, the BAD thing! I hate that Cherub cat! I
HATE him!"
Mr. Winslow rubbed his chin. "We-e-ll," he drawled again. "He
does seem to have done what you might call a finished job.
H-u-u-m! . . . 'Another offensive on the--er--no'theast'ard
front; all objectives attained.' That's the way the newspapers
tell such things nowadays, ain't it? . . . However, there's no
use cryin' over spilt--er--puddin'. Lucky there's eggs and milk
aboard the ship. I shan't starve, anyhow."
Barbara was aghast. "Eggs and milk!" she repeated. "Is THAT all
you've got for Sunday dinner, Mr. Winslow? Why, that's awful!"
Jed smiled and began picking up the fragments of the plate. He
went to the closet to get a broom and when he came out again the
young lady had vanished.
But she was back again in a few minutes, her eyes shining.
"Mr. Winslow," she said, "Mamma sent me to ask if you could please
come right over to our house.
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