“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 bran-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 contrived to scarify the cupboard with it,and was arranging to begin on the bureau,when he was called off to dress for Sunday school.
Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap,and he went outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there;then he dipped the soap in the water and laid it down;turned up his sleeves;poured out the water on the ground,gently,and then entered the kitchen and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the door.But Mary removed the towel and said:
“Now ain't you ashamed,Tom.You mustn't be so bad.Water won't hurt you.”
Tom was a trifle disconcerted.The basin was refilled,and this time he stood over it a little while,gathering resolution;took in a big breath and began.When he entered the kitchen presently,with both eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands,an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping from his face.
But when he emerged from the towel,he was not yet satisfactory,for the clean territory stopped short at his chin and his jaws,like a mask;below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and backward around his neck.
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