she came and sat dawn, and looked disconsolately at the underdone beef on her plate.
“I do hate this raw meat,” she said.
“Good for you,” replied her brother, who was eating industriously. “Give you some muscle to wallop the nippers.”
She pushed it aside, and began to eat the vegetables. Her brother re-charged his plate and continued to eat.
“Well, our George, I do think you might pass a body that gravy,” said Mollie, the younger sister, in injured tones.
“Certainly,” he replied. “Won’t you have the joint as well?”
“No!” retorted the young lady of twelve, “I don’t expect you’ve done with it yet.”
“Clever!” he exclaimed across a mouthful.
“Do you think so?” said the elder sister Emily, sarcastically.
“Yes,” he replied complacently, “you’ve made her as sharp as yourself, I see, since you’ve had her in Standard Six. I’ll try a potato, mother, if you can find one that’s done.”
“Well, George, they seem mixed, I’m sure that was done that I tried. There—they are mixed—look at this one, it’s soft enough. I’m sure they were boiling long enough.”
“Don’t explain and apologise to him,” said Emily irritably.
“Perhaps the kids were too much for her this morning,” he said calmly, to nobody in particular.
“No,” chimed in Mollie, “she knocked a lad across his nose and made it bleed.”
