He did not relish a form of martyrdom that came with his saintship, either. It took the form of small boys, who love to annoy saints, hermits, and other odd characters. They began throwing clods at him from a safe distance, chanting in chorus: “Holy saint! Holy saint! Wishes he was, but knows he ain't!” Saint Harvey was learning that saints are not canonized for nothing. They thoroughly earn their places in the estimation of their admirera. Lem, after an unusually hard day with Miss Susan, came one night to the hermitage of Saint Harvey with his usual plea to be taken back. “No, Lem,” his father said patiently, “I ain't going to take you. I can't, Lem. I got to stick at this saint job now. And I can't, anyhow. I ain't got the money to pay your aunt, and you've got to stay until--” From his pocket Lem drew something thick and square, wrapped in paper. He was sitting where he always sat, and he cast a glance out of the comers of his eyes at his father as he slowly unwrapped the paper. “Aw! please let me come back!” he begged, and dropped the paper on the floor. Saint Harvey of Riverbank licked his lips and drew a deep, covetous breath. In his hand Lem held a thick, moist ham sandwich. He lifted one lid and straightened the ham with his finger--thick, moist ham with a strip of luscious white fat that hung tremulously over the edge of the bread. “Aw! please, pa! Let me come back,” Lem begged, and set his teeth into the sandwich. Saint Harvey licked his puffy lips again and heaved a second deep sigh. The great ham sandwich barrage against the encroaching sainthood of Saint Harvey of River-bank had begun. CHAPTER XVIII Saint Harvey of Riverbank was not having a care-free sainthood those days. Lem came every night, sitting in the same place, pleading with his father to stop being a saint, and eating a luscious ham sandwich before his eyes. The young rascal knew what he was doing. He found a way of turning the ham slowly on the bread--so his father saw it in all its beauty--that made Saint Harvey turn red in the face and swallow hard and lick his lips greedily. There was a way in which Lem licked a forefinger after getting it moist with ham grease that was agony to Saint Harvey. And all the while Lem talked. “Don't your aunt treat you nice?” his father would ask. “No, she don't,” Lem would say. “She's mean to me. She makes me wash the dishes, she does. An'she's got millions of dishes. She don't care how many dishes she has. She goes an' cooks an' cooks, an' has pie an' puddin' an' roast beef an' asparagus an'--” “How does she have the asparagus, Lem?” “Well, she has it in stalks--big, white stalks -- with a kind of sauce on it. It's good. It's mighty good. An' she has ham an' eggs an' beefsteak an' sausage an' pancakes for breakfast. With maple syrup.” “Ham an' eggs _an'_ beefsteak an' sausage?” “Yes.”