MINERVA

. But not long, because she says: “It’s _just_ as I expected. So you had it in your pocket all the time; and like as not you’ve got the other things there, too. How’d it get there?” “I reely don’t know, Sally,” he says, kind of apologizing, “or you know I would tell. I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen before breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put my Testament in, and it must be so, because my Testament ain’t in; but I’ll go and see; and if the Testament is where I had it, I’ll know I didn’t put it in, and that will show that I laid the Testament down and took up the spoon, and—” “Oh, for the land’s sake! Give a body a rest! Go ’long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and don’t come nigh me again till I’ve got back my peace of mind.” _I’d_ a heard her if she’d a said it to herself, let alone speaking it out; and I’d a got up and obeyed her if I’d a been dead. As we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went out. Tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says: “Well, it ain’t no use to send things by _him_ no more, he ain’t reliable.” Then he says: “But he done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we’ll go and do him one without _him_ knowing it—stop up his rat-holes.” There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. Then we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t’other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. He went a mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he’d been to them all. Then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying: “Well, for the life of me I can’t remember when I done it. I could show her now that I warn’t to blame on account of the rats. But never mind—let it go. I reckon it wouldn’t do no good.” And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And always is. Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we’d got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and Tom says: “Why, Aunt Sally, there ain’t but nine spoons _yet_.” She says: “Go ’long to your play, and don’t bother me. I know better, I counted ’m myself.” “Well, I’ve counted them twice, Aunty, and _I_ can’t make but nine.” She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count—anybody would. “I declare to gracious ther’ _ain’t_ but nine!” she says. “Why, what in the world—plague _take_ the things, I’ll count ’m again.” So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says: “Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther’s _ten_ now!” and she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom says: “Why, Aunty, _I_ don’t think there’s ten.” “You numskull, didn’t you see me _count_ ’m?” “I know, but—” “Well, I’ll