ouldn't. It's for your learnin', ain't it? Not
for mine. I'm all finished with them conundrums. Of course," went on Mr.
Pawket, airily--"of course I never done figurin' like that when I was a
boy. Them apples, now. Seems to me it all depends on the season. Ef the
lady was a widder, like as not she was took advantage of. I mistrust she
wouldn't be no judge of apples; not bein' a farmer, how could she know
that there's years when apples is valleyble, and other years when you
insult the pigs with 'em? But then--you talk about apples--Well, as for
a fine apple, whether it's Northern Spy or Harvest Moon...." Thus Mr.
Pawket skilfully directed the conversation into channels more familiar.

At last the twins, in a fine, concerted action of chewing, balanced
large slices of buttered bread on the flats of their hands, eyed their
grandparents, and, after swallowing with peculiar heavy efforts of the
epiglottis, remarked, simultaneously:

"Willum is comin' home."

Mr. Pawket started. He reached for his spectacles, solemnly polished
them, and put them on. Mrs. Pawket, bearing a large leaning tower of
griddle-cakes toward the table, halted as one petrified.

The twins bent over their plates, humped their shoulders, observing,
"That's what they all say down to the Center."

"Mr. Sykes heard it into the feedstore."

"Mis' Badger says it."

"They was all talkin' about it into the undertaker's."

"He's going to build a new house."

"His wife thinks she's goin' to like it here."

Mr. Pawket took off his spectacles. His wife! Willum with a wife?

The twins, now devouring griddle-cakes, turned on him with unmoved
faces.

"It's going to be a show-place. The butcher can tell yer all about it--a
grand house like a big railroad station, all gold pipes and runnin'
water."

One twin turned the syrup-jug upside down; there ensued a slight scuffle
between the two, each ardently attempting to hold his plate under the
golden falling globules.

"They'm goin' to have five ottermobiles, and one for the cook to run
herself around in; there's goin' to be one room all canary-birds, and
there's goin' to be a g'rage with painted winders and a steeple like a
church."

Mrs. Pawket sat down. She fanned herself with her apron.

"Set up to the table and eat, Mawther," feebly advised Mr. Pawket.

The twins, rapidly and scientifically consuming griddle-cakes, jaws
working, unemotional eyes watching the effect of their statements,
continued: