MINERVA

a little nervious, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt Sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her hand, and says: “You owdacious puppy!” He looked kind of hurt, and says: “I’m surprised at you, m’am.” “You’re s’rp—Why, what do you reckon I am? I’ve a good notion to take and—Say, what do you mean by kissing me?” He looked kind of humble, and says: “I didn’t mean nothing, m’am. I didn’t mean no harm. I—I—thought you’d like it.” “Why, you born fool!” She took up the spinning stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack with it. “What made you think I’d like it?” “Well, I don’t know. Only, they—they—told me you would.” “_They_ told you I would. Whoever told you’s _another_ lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who’s _they?_” “Why, everybody. They all said so, m’am.” It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says: “Who’s ‘everybody’? Out with their names, or ther’ll be an idiot short.” He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says: “I’m sorry, and I warn’t expecting it. They told me to. They all told me to. They all said, kiss her; and said she’d like it. They all said it—every one of them. But I’m sorry, m’am, and I won’t do it no more—I won’t, honest.” “You won’t, won’t you? Well, I sh’d _reckon_ you won’t!” “No’m, I’m honest about it; I won’t ever do it again—till you ask me.” “Till I _ask_ you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I lay you’ll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation before ever I ask you—or the likes of you.” “Well,” he says, “it does surprise me so. I can’t make it out, somehow. They said you would, and I thought you would. But—” He stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman’s, and says, “Didn’t _you_ think she’d like me to kiss her, sir?” “Why, no; I—I—well, no, I b’lieve I didn’t.” Then he looks on around the same way to me, and says: “Tom, didn’t _you_ think Aunt Sally ’d open out her arms and say, ‘Sid Sawyer—’” “My land!” she says, breaking in and jumping for him, “you impudent young rascal, to fool a body so—” and was going to hug him, but he fended her off, and says: “No, not till you’ve asked me first.” So she didn’t lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again she says: “Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn’t looking for _you_ at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about anybody coming but him.” “It’s because it warn’t _intended_ for any of us to come but Tom,” he says; “but I begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for me to by-and-by tag along and drop in, and let on to be a stranger. But it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain’t no healthy place for a stranger to come.” “No—not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws boxed; I hain’t been so put