“Saves stomach and purse.”  The farmer put a little stress on ‘purse.’

“Yes, I calculate I save threepence a day in beer alone,” said Anthony.

“Three times seven’s twenty-one, ain’t it?”

Mr. Fleming said this, and let out his elbow in a small perplexity, as Anthony took him up:  “And fifty-two times twenty-one?”

“Well, that’s, that’s—­how much is that, Mas’ Gammon?” the farmer asked in a bellow.

Master Gammon was laboriously and steadily engaged in tightening himself with dumpling.  He relaxed his exertions sufficiently to take this new burden on his brain, and immediately cast it off.

“Ah never thinks when I feeds—­Ah was al’ays a bad hand at ’counts.  Gi’es it up.”

“Why, you’re like a horse that never was rode!  Try again, old man,” said the farmer.

“If I drags a cart,” Master Gammon replied, “that ain’t no reason why I should leap a gate.”

The farmer felt that he was worsted as regarded the illustration, and with a bit of the boy’s fear of the pedagogue, he fought Anthony off by still pressing the arithmetical problem upon Master Gammon; until the old man, goaded to exasperation, rolled out thunderingly,—­

“If I works fer ye, that ain’t no reason why I should think fer ye,” which caused him to be left in peace.

“Eh, Robert?” the farmer transferred the question; “Come! what is it?”

Robert begged a minute’s delay, while Anthony watched him with hawk eyes.

“I tell you what it is—­it’s pounds,” said Robert.

This tickled Anthony, who let him escape, crying:  “Capital!  Pounds it is in your pocket, sir, and you hit that neatly, I will say.  Let it be five.  You out with your five at interest, compound interest; soon comes another five; treat it the same:  in ten years—­eh? and then you get into figures; you swim in figures!”

“I should think you did!” said the farmer, winking slyly.

Anthony caught the smile, hesitated and looked shrewd, and then covered his confusion by holding his plate to Mrs. Sumfit for a help.  The manifest evasion and mute declaration that dumpling said “mum” on that head, gave the farmer a quiet glow.

“When you are ready to tell me all about my darlin’, sir,” Mrs. Sumfit suggested, coaxingly.

“After dinner, mother—­after dinner,” said the farmer.

“And we’re waitin’, are we, till them dumplings is finished?” she exclaimed, piteously, with a glance at Master Gammon’s plate.

“After dinner we’ll have a talk, mother.”

Mrs. Sumfit feared from this delay that there was queer news to be told of Dahlia’s temper; but she longed for the narrative no whit the less, and again cast a sad eye on the leisurely proceedings of Master Gammon.  The veteran was still calmly tightening.  His fork was on end, with a vast mouthful impaled on the prongs.  Master Gammon, a thoughtful eater, was always last at the meal, and a latent, deep-lying irritation at Mrs. Sumfit for her fidgetiness, day after day, toward the finish of the dish, added a relish to his engulfing of the monstrous morsel.  He looked at her steadily, like an ox of the fields, and consumed it, and then holding his plate out, in a remorseless way, said, “You make ’em so good, marm.”