Part 18 (1/2)

”How do you do, Thomas Candy?” said Mrs. Tree.

”How-do-you-do-Missis-Tree-I'm-pretty-well-thank-you-and-hope-you-are- the-same!” replied Tommy Candy, in one breath.

”Humph! you shake hands better than you did; but remember to press with the palm, not pinch with the fingers! Now, what do you want?”

”I brung you a letter,” said Tommy Candy. ”I was goin' by the post-office, and Mr. Jaquith hollered to me and said bring it to you, and so I brung it.”

”I thank you, Thomas,” said the old lady, taking the letter and laying it down without looking at it. ”Sit down! There are burnt almonds in the ivory box. Humph! I hear very bad accounts of you, Tommy Candy.”

Tommy looked up from an ardent consideration of the relative size of the burnt almonds; his face was that of a freckled cherub who knew not sin.

”What is all this about Isaac Weight and Timpson Boody, the s.e.xton? I hear you were at the bottom of the affair.”

The freckled cherub vanished; instead appeared an imp, with a complex and illuminating grin pervading even the roots of his hair.

”Ho!” he chuckled. ”I tell ye, Mis' Tree, I had a time! I tell ye I got even with old b.o.o.by and Squashnose Weight, too, that time. Ho! ha!

Yes'm, I did.”

”You are an extremely naughty boy!” said Mrs. Tree, severely. ”Sit there--don't wriggle in your cheer; you are not an eel, though I admit you are the next thing to it--and tell me every word about it, do you hear?”

”Every word?” echoed Tommy Candy.

”Every word.”

Their eyes met; and, if twinkle met twinkle, still her brows were severe, and her cap simply awful. Tommy Candy chuckled again. ”I tell ye!” he said.

He reflected a moment, nibbling an almond absently, then leaned forward, and, clasping his hands over both knees, began his tale.

”Old b.o.o.by's ben pickin' on me ever sence I can remember. I don't git no comfort goin' to meetin', he picks on me so. Ever anybody sneezes, or drops a hymn-book, or throws a lozenger, he lays it to me, and he ketches me after meetin' and pulls my ears. Last Sunday he took away every lozenger I had, five cents' wuth, jest because I stuck one on Doctor Pottle's co't in the pew front of our'n. So then I swowed I'd have revenge, like that feller in the poetry-book you lent me. So next day after school I seed him--well, _saw_ him--come along with his gla.s.s-settin' tools, and go to work settin' some gla.s.s in one of the meetin'-house winders. Some o' them little small panes got broke somehow--yes'm, I did, but I never meant to, honest I didn't. I was jest tryin' my new catapult, and I never thought they'd have such measly gla.s.s as all that. Well, so I see--saw him get to work, and I says to Squashnose Weight--we was goin' home from school together--I says, 'Let's go up in the gallery!' Old b.o.o.by had left the door open, and 'twas right under the gallery that he was to work. So we went up; and I had my pocket full of split peas--no'm, I didn't have my bean-blower along; I'd known better than to take it into the meetin'-house, anyway; and we slipped in behind old b.o.o.by's back and got up into the gallery, and I slid the winder up easy, and we commenced droppin' peas down on his head. He's bald as a bedpost, you know, and to see them peas hop up and roll off--I tell ye, 'twas sport! Old b.o.o.by didn't know what in thunder was the matter at first. First two or three he jest kind o'

shooed with his hand--thought it was hossflies, mebbe, or June-bugs; but we went on droppin' of 'em, and they hopped and skipped off his head like bullets, and b.u.mby he see one on the ground. He picked it up and looked it all over, and then he looked up. You know how he opens his mouth and sort o' squinnies up his eyes? Mis' Tree, I couldn't help it, no way in the world; I jest dropped a handful of peas right down into his mouth. 'Twa'n't no great of a shot, for he opened the spread of a quart dipper; but Squashnose he sung out 'Gee whittakers!' and raised up his head, and old b.o.o.by saw him. Well, the way he dropped his tools and put for the door was a caution. We thought we could get down before he reached the gallery stairs, but I caught my pants on a nail, and Squashnose got his foot wedged in between two benches, and, by the time we got loose, we heard old b.o.o.by comin' poundin' up the stairs like all possessed. There wa'n't nothin' to do then but cut and run up the belfry ladder. We slipped off our shoes and stockin's, and thought mebbe we could get up without him hearin' us, but he did hear, and up he come full chisel, puffin' and cussin' like all creation.

”We waited--there wa'n't nothin' else to do; and I meant--I reely did, Mis' Tree--to own up and say I was sorry and take my lickin'; but that Squashnose Weight--he makes me tired!--the minute he see old b.o.o.by's bald head comin' up the ladder, he hollers out, 'Tommy Candy did it, Mr.

Boody! Tommy Candy did it; he's got his pocket full of 'em now. I see him!'

”Well, you bet I was mad then! I got holt of him and give his head one good ram against the wall; and then when old b.o.o.by stepped up into the loft, I dropped down on all fours and run between his legs, and upset him onto Squashnose, and clum down the ladder and run home. That was every livin' thing I done, Mis' Tree, honest it was; and they blame it all on me, the lickin' Squashnose got, and all. I give him a good one, too, next day. I druther be me than him, anyway.”

”Humph!” said Mrs. Tree. She did not look at Tommy, but held the Chinese screen before her face. ”Did--did your father whip you well, Tommy?”

”Yes'm, he did so, the best lickin' I had this year; I dono but the best I ever had, but 'twas wuth it!”

When Master Candy left Mrs. Tree he had a neat and concise little lecture pa.s.sing through his head, on its way from one ear to the other, and in his pocket an a.s.sortment of squares of fig-paste, red and white.

The red, as Mrs. Tree pointed out to him, had nuts in them.

Left alone, the old lady put down the screen, and let the twinkle have its own way. She shook her head two or three times at the fire, and laughed a little rustling laugh.

”Solomon Candy! Solomon Candy!” she said. ”A chip of the old block!”

Then she took up her letter.

Half an hour later Miss Vesta, coming in for her daily visit (for Miss Phoebe's death had brought the aunt and niece even nearer together than they were before), found her aunt in a state of high indignation.