our light, and hid; and here comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. He went a mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all. Then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying:
"Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I dene it. I could show her now that I warn't to blame on account of the rats. But never mind—let it go. I reckon it wouldn't do no good."
And so he went on a mumbling upstairs, and then we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And always is.
Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered it out, he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and Tom says:
"Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons, yet."
She says:
"Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I know better, I counted 'm myself."
"Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't make but pine."
She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count—anybody would.
"I declare to gracious ther' ain't but nine!" she says. "Why, what in the world—plague take the things, I'll count 'm again."
So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says:
