“You had better run out and ask Sam to give you some peppermints,” repeated Anderson, desperately.

“No, thank you.  I’m real obliged, but I guess I don’t feel like it now.  But I tell you what I had a good deal rather have?”

“What is that?”

“What are you going to have for dinner?”

“Now, see here, my son,” said Anderson, laughing.  “We are going to have a fine dinner, and I should be exceedingly glad to have you as my guest, but this time there must be no dining with me without your mother’s knowledge.”

“Oh, Amy won’t care.”

“Nevertheless, you must go home and obtain permission before I take you home with me,” said Anderson, firmly.

“I don’t think you are very polite,” said Eddy; but it ended in his presently saying that, well, then, he would go home and ask permission; but it was not of the slightest use.  “They would all want me to stay, if they thought anything of me.  I know Amy would.  Amy said this morning I was the worst off of them all, because I had such a misfortunate appetite.”  The boy’s ingenuous eyes met the man’s fixed upon him with a mixture of amusement and compassion.  “You see,” added Eddy, simply, “all the things left over from the wedding, the caterers let us have; papa said not to ask him, and Amy wouldn’t, but Aunt Anna did, and there was a lot, though folks ate so much.  There was one gentleman ate ten plates of salad—­yes, he did.  I saw him.  He was the doctor, so I suppose he wasn’t ill afterwards.  But there was a lot left.  Of course the ice-cream melted, but it was nice to drink afterwards, and there was a lot of salad and cake and rolls.  The cakes and rolls lasted longest.  I got pretty tired of them.  But now those are all gone, and the butcher won’t let us have any more meat, though he trusted us two days after the wedding, because he heard papa paid the florist and the liveryman, but now he has stopped again.  Of course we have things from here, but you don’t keep meat.  Why don’t you keep meat?”

The absurd pathos of the whole was almost too much for Anderson.  He rose and went to the window and looked out as he replied that it was not unusual for a grocer to include meat in his stock of trade.

“I know it isn’t,” said Eddy, “but it would be so nice for us if you did, and all the poor people the butcher wouldn’t trust.  Did you ever get real hungry, and have nothing except crackers and little gingersnaps and such things?”

“No, I don’t know that I ever did.”

“Well, it is awful,” said Eddy, with emphasis.  He started up.  “Well,” he said, “I’m going to run right home and ask Amy.  She’ll let me come.  What did you say you were going to have for dinner?”

“Roast beef,” replied Anderson.

“Goody!” cried the boy, and was off.