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“Miss Gordon, with all his book larnin’ he knowed no more ’bout black-jack than I know ’bout divin’ fer pearls, and the Bullock boys thort he was no good anyhow, ef he couldn’t beat their Par at cards. So one mornin’ they met him as he was goin’ to school, an’ they give him a good beatin’ up, then flung him in Rodd’s creek to cool him, bein’ winter. He crawled outer the creek, Miss Gordon, an’ never went to the school no more. It shorely was a jedgement on him fer playin’ those wicked card games. Moses, parse the ketchup.” “Are—are you hurt bad, Jimmy?” came in a quaking voice. Picking up a second paper at random, “This is a composition on Alfred the Great,” he explained..
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“What’s the use of goin’ to a dance and settin’ sleepin’ like one of them spinxes, Ebenezer?” she expostulated as she roused him from his slumbers. The good lady herself had danced almost incessantly until her face had taken on the hue of a ripe pippin. “Perhaps this is Nancy’s way of playing,” he thought. “Why doesn’t the Gang come, mamma?” he asked, returning the kiss he knew was one ahead for his natal day. “Glory must git better, nothin’s no fun no more,” blurted Moses..
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