Moreover, she idled
away her time, teaching cats to jump, and her eighteen
years old, if she was a day!
Tom knew that if he went to the party it must be by
stealth. When he drove up to the kitchen door his mother
looked up from her ironing and asked:
"What kept you, Tom?"
Tom had not been detained at all, but Mrs. Motherwell
always used this form of salutation to be sure.
Tom grumbled a reply, and handing out the mail began to
unhitch.
Mrs. Motherwell read the addresses on the Englishman's
letters:
Mr. Arthur Wemyss,
c/o Mr. S. Motherwell,
Millford P.O.,
Manitoba, Canada,
Township 8, range 16, sec't. 20. North America.
"Now I wonder who's writing to him?" she said, laying
the two letters down reluctantly.
There was one other letter addressed to Mr. Motherwell,
which she took to be a twine bill. It was post-marked
Brandon. She put it up in the pudding dish on the sideboard.
As Tom led the horse to the stable he met Pearl coming
in with the eggs.
"See here, kid," he said carelessly, handing her the
letter.
Tom knew Pearl was to be trusted. She had a good head,
Pearl had, for a girl.
"Oh, good shot!" Pearl cried delightedly, as she read
the note. "Won't that be great? Are your clothes ready,
though?" It was the eldest of the family who spoke.
"Clothes," Tom said contemptuously. "They are a blamed
sight readier than I am."
"I'll blacken your boots," Pearl said, "and press out a
tie.
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