But Bog was unequal to the dissimulation involved in this
plan, and abandoned it. Then he had a notion of following the young man,
and seeing what became of him. But a sudden and very decided rising of
fresh blood to Bog's cheeks and ears told him that he had played the
part of spy long enough. So Bog determined--as many grown-up people in
graver dilemmas do--to go home to supper.
Bog found his supper all ready for him, and it was a good one. For his
aunt, although the victim of a chronic rheumatism, had contrived to
preserve a sharp appetite from the wreck of her former health, and
cooked three meals for herself and two for Bog (who was never home at
noon) daily. She was singularly punctual, too. Breakfast was always
smoking hot on the table at 6 A.M.; and supper (and dinner combined, for
Bog) was never a minute behind 5 P.M. in the winter time. Bog, who had a
truly boyish idea of feminine excellencies, considered that this knack
of cooking, and this amazing punctuality, were more than an offset for
his aunt's little infirmities of temper, and her everlasting discourse
on the rheumatics.
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