His friend made a close examination.
"Yo' unions is injured plum scanerous," was his discouraging
decision, "and hit 'pears ter me dat yo' hide done suffer
too; you's got er turrible scratch."
The child sighed. The injury to the flesh was of small
importance,--he could hide that from his aunt--but the rent
in his trousers was a serious matter.
"I wish I could git 'em mended 'fore I goes home," he said
wistfully.
"I tell you what do," suggested Sam, "I 'low Miss Cecilia'll
holp yeh; jest go by her house an' she'll darn 'em up fer
yuh."
Billy hesitated.
"Well, you see, Sam, me an' Miss Cecilia's engaged an' we's
fixin' to marry jes''s soon's I puts on long pants, an' I
'shame' to ask her. An' I don't berlieve young 'omans
patches the breeches of young mans what they's goin' to
marry nohow. Do you? Aunt Minerva ain' never patched no
breeches for the Major. And then," with a modest blush, "my
unions is tore too, an' I ain't got on nothin' else to hide
my skin.
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