"
"Dear me, Joe!" exclaimed old Mr. King, "do give it to him more slowly";
for Jack's head of light hair was wagging from one to the other of the
visitors in great distress.
"I am," said Joel; "awful slow, Grandpapa."
"It doesn't look much like it," said the old gentleman, bursting into a
laugh. The fat grocer over at the molasses barrel, looked across anxiously
at the group, and for once in his life wished Mrs. Jones, although one of
his best customers, anywhere but in his shop.
[Illustration: He stood in the middle of the little shop. ]
"Well, try again, Joel," said Mr. King. So Joel began once more, and before
long, Jack Parish understood fairly that Mrs. Sterling had actually invited
him to supper on the following night with the Comfort committee, just as if
he were not the son of Ichabod Parish, the little grocer on Common Street,
but were one of the rich boys of Joel Pepper's set.
"Pa," he shouted (he wanted some one of his own family to help understand
this puzzle), "do come here."
The fat grocer, hearing this cry, could stand it no longer trying to stamp
out his curiosity; so deserting the molasses barrel and forgetting to turn
the spigot, he bore off the jug.
"There, Mis. Jones, there you are"--depositing it with a thump on the
counter, and waddled over to his son and the visitors.
When he comprehended the matter, as after an infinite deal of pains he did,
his astonishment knew no bounds.
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