And see, Mamma, he IS going to whistle."
Sure enough, their guest whistled a few mournful bars, breaking off
suddenly to observe:
"I hope there wan't any bones in it."
"Bones in what? What do you mean, Mr. Winslow?" queried Mrs.
Armstrong, who was puzzled, to say the least.
"Eh? Oh, I hope there wan't any bones in that mackerel Heman's cat
got away with. If there was it might choke or somethin'."
"Good gracious! I shouldn't worry over that possibility, if I were
you. I should scarcely blame you for wishing it might choke, after
stealing your dinner."
Mr. Winslow shook his head. "That wouldn't do," solemnly. "If it
choked it couldn't ever steal another one."
"But you don't WANT it to steal another one, do you?"
"We-ll, if every one it stole meant my havin' as good an afternoon
as this one's been, I'd--"
He stopped. Barbara ventured to spur him on.
"You'd what?" she asked.
"I'd give up whittlin' weather vanes and go mackerel-seinin' for
the critter's benefit. Well--er--good day, ma'am."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Winslow. We shall expect you again soon. You
must be neighborly, for, remember, we are friends now."
Jed was half way across the yard, but he stopped and turned.
"My--my FRIENDS generally call me 'Jed,'" he said. Then, his face
a bright red, he hurried into the shop and closed the door.
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