“There are lots of things you wouldn’t dare say before everybody,” averred
Dora.
“No, there isn’t.”
“There is, too. Would you,” demanded Dora gravely, “would you say ‘tomcat’
before the minister?”
This was a staggerer. Davy was not prepared for such a concrete example of
the freedom of speech. But one did not have to be consistent with Dora.
“Of course not,” he admitted sulkily.
“‘Tomcat’ isn’t a holy word. I wouldn’t mention such an animal before a
minister at all.”
“But if you had to?” persisted Dora.
“I’d call it a Thomas pussy,” said Davy.
“I think ‘gentleman cat’ would be more polite,” reflected Dora.
“YOU thinking!” retorted Davy with withering scorn.
Davy was not feeling comfortable, though he would have died before he
admitted it to Dora. Now that the exhilaration of truant delights had died away,
his conscience was beginning to give him salutary twinges. After all, perhaps it
would have been better to have gone to Sunday School and church. Mrs. Lynde
might be bossy; but there was always a box of cookies in her kitchen cupboard
and she was not stingy. At this inconvenient moment Davy remembered that
when he had torn his new school pants the week before, Mrs. Lynde had mended
them beautifully and never said a word to Marilla about them.
But Davy’s cup of iniquity was not yet full. He was to discover that one sin
demands another to cover it. They had dinner with Mrs. Lynde that day, and the
first thing she asked Davy was,
“Were all your class in Sunday School today?”
“Yes’m,” said Davy with a gulp. “All were there—‘cept one.”
“Did you say your Golden Text and catechism?”
“Yes’m.”
“Did you put your collection in?”
“Yes’m.”
“Was Mrs. Malcolm MacPherson in church?”
“I don’t know.” This, at least, was the truth, thought wretched Davy.
“Was the Ladies’ Aid announced for next week?”