“No, I guess not.  Ain’t had breakfast yet.  Cap’n Shad’s out to the barn ‘tendin’ to the horse and Zoeth’s feedin’ the hens.  They’ll be in pretty soon, if we have luck.  Course it’s time for breakfast, but that’s nothing.  I’m the only one that has to think about time in this house.”

The girl regarded him thoughtfully.

“You have to work awful hard, don’t you, Mr. Chase?” she said.

Isaiah looked at her suspiciously.

“Huh?” he grunted.  “Who told you that?”

“Nobody.  I just guessed it from what you said.”

“Humph!  Well, you guessed right.  I don’t have many spare minutes.”

“Yes, sir.  Are you a perfect slave?”

“Eh?  What?”

“Mrs. Hobbs says she is a perfect slave when she has to work hard.”

“Who’s Mrs. Hobbs?”

“She’s—­she keeps house—­that is, she used to keep house for my father over in Ostable.  I don’t suppose she will any more now he’s dead.  She’ll be glad, I guess.  Perhaps she won’t have to be a perfect slave now.  She used to wear aprons same as you do.  I never saw a man wear an apron before.  Do you have to wear one?”

“Hey?  Have to?  No, course I don’t have to unless I want to.”

Mary-’Gusta reflected.

“I suppose,” she went on, after a moment, “it saves your pants.  You’d get ’em all spotted up if you didn’t wear the apron.  Pneumonia is a good thing to take out Spots.”

Isaiah was surprised.

“What is?” he asked.

“Pneumonia. . . .  No, I don’t think that’s right.  It’s pneumonia that makes you sick.  Somethin’ else takes out the spots.  I know now; it’s am-monia.  It’s very good for spots but you mustn’t smell the bottle.  I smelled the bottle once and it went right up into my head.”

“What on earth are you talkin’ about?  The bottle went up into your head!”

“No, the ammonia smell did.  It was awful; like—­like—­” she paused, evidently in search of a simile; “like sneezin’ backwards,” she added.  “It was terrible.”

Isaiah laughed.  “I should think ‘twould be,” he declared.  “Sneezin’ backwards!  Ho, ho!  That’s a good one!”

Mary-’Gusta’s eyes were still fixed upon the apron.

“Mr.—­I mean Cap’n Gould said you was the cook and steward,” she observed.  “I don’t know as I know what a steward is, exactly.  Is it the one that stews things?”

“Ha, ha!” roared Isaiah.  Mary-’Gusta’s dignity was hurt.  The color rose in her cheeks.

“Was it funny?” she asked.  “I didn’t know.  I know that a cook cooked things, and a baker baked things, so I thought maybe a steward stewed ’em.”

Mr. Chase continued to chuckle.  The girl considered.

“I see,” she said, with a solemn nod.  “It was funny, I guess.  I remember now that a friar doesn’t fry things.  He is a—­a kind of minister.  Friar Tuck was one in ‘Robin Hood,’ you know.  Mrs. Bailey read about him to me.  Do you like ‘Robin Hood,’ Mr. Chase?”