Mrs. Ducker was just as particular about
pears as she was about final g's, so she had gone herself
to select them.
When she saw Wilford, her son, riding with the
butcher--well, really, she could not have told the
sensation it gave her. Wilford could not have told,
either, just how he felt when he saw his mother. But both
Mrs. Ducker and her son had a distinct sensation when
they met that morning.
She called Wilford, and he came. No sooner had he left
his seat than Patsey Watson took his place. Wilford dared
not ask for the return of the knife: his mother would
know that he had had dealings with Patsey Watson, and
his account at the maternal bank was already overdrawn.
Mrs. Ducker was more sorrowful than angry.
"Wilford!" she said with great dignity, regarding the
downcast little boy with exaggerated scorn, "and you a
Ducker!"
She escorted the fallen Ducker sadly homeward, but, oh,
so glad that she had saved him from the corroding influence
of the butcher boy.
While Wilford Ducker was unfastening the china buttons
on his waist, preparatory to a season of rest and
retirement, that he might the better ponder upon the sins
of disobedience and evil associations, Patsey Watson was
opening and shutting his new knife proudly.
"It was easy done," he was saying to himself. "I'm kinder
sorry I jewed him down now. Might as well ha' let him
have the week. Sure, there's no luck in being mane."
CHAPTER XI
HOW PEARL WATSON WIPED OUT THE STAIN
Mrs.
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