“Sh—”
“For they—a—”
“ S , H , A —”
“For they S , H —Oh, I don’t know what it is!”
“ Shall! ”
“Oh, shall ! for they shall—for they shall—a—a—shall mourn—a—a—blessed are they that shall—they that—a—they that shall mourn, for they shall—a—shall what ? Why don’t you tell me, Mary?—what do you want to be so mean for?”
“Oh, Tom, you poor thickheaded thing, I’m not teasing you. I wouldn’t do that. You must go and learn it again. Don’t you be discouraged, Tom, you’ll manage it—and if you do, I’ll give you something ever so nice. There, now, that’s a good boy.”
“All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is.”
“Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it’s nice, it is nice.”
“You bet you that’s so, Mary. All right, I’ll tackle it again.”
And he did “tackle it again”—and under the double pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he did it with such spirit that he accomplished a shining success. Mary gave him a brand-new “Barlow” knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that swept his system shook him to his foundations. True, the knife would not cut anything, but it was a “sure-enough” Barlow, and there was inconceivable grandeur in that—though where the Western boys ever got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its injury is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom