That was his afternoon's
work.
Maybe you think the widow wa'n't mad. She tip-toed out to the wood-pile,
grabbed her new boarder by the coat collar and shook him till his head
played "Johnny Comes Marching Home" against the chopping block.
"You lazy thing, you!" says she, with her eyes snapping. "Wake up and
tell me what you mean by sleeping when I told you to work."
"Sleep?" stutters Asaph, kind of reaching out with his mind for a
life-preserver. "I--I wa'n't asleep."
Well, I don't think he had really meant to sleep. I guess he just set
down to think of a good brand new excuse for not working, and kind of
drowsed off.
"You wa'n't hey?" says Deborah. "Then 'twas the best imitation ever _I_
see. What WAS you doing, if 'tain't too personal a question?"
"I--I guess I must have fainted. I'm subject to such spells. You see,
ma'am, I ain't been well for--"
"Yes, I know. I understand all about that. Now, you march your boots
into that house, where I can keep an eye on you, and help me get supper.
To-morrer morning you'll get up at five o'clock and chop wood till
breakfast time. If I think you've chopped enough, maybe you'll get the
breakfast. If I don't think so you'll keep on chopping. Now, march!"
Blueworthy, he marched, but 'twa'n't as joyful a parade as an Odd
Fellers' picnic. He could see he'd made a miscue--a clean miss, and
the white ball in the pocket. He knew, too, that a lot depended on his
making a good impression the first thing, and instead of that he'd gone
and "foozled his approach," as that city feller said last summer when
he ran the catboat plump into the end of the pier.
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