"You're just right about that. This town has got the laziest set of men, outside of their own affairs, that I ever heard of. When they're through work for the day, they just set 'round and smoke, and tell each other that the town ain't the same as it used to be; and that this thing would be done, or that thing 'tended to, if the right men was in office. Who elects the selectmen, I should like to know? And then they talk about who's goin' to be the next President, and who's goin' to be next governor, and let the town that they live in, that's right under their lazy noses day and night, go to rack and ruin. I say the right way is to do _somethin'_ even if you make a mess of it tryin'." "Hear, hear!" cried Peter, as he clapped his hands. "That's a great speech, Emmy, and all true." "True, I guess it is, true as gospel," replied Mrs. Stout, and then turning on her oldest son asked, sharply, "Henry Warren Stout, are you eatin' butter on bread, or bread on butter?" Before the boy had time to reply he was hit in the eye with a bread pill from the hand of Paul Jones, whereupon Wendell Phillips fell off his chair convulsed with laughter. "We're goin' to give a play," said Mrs. Stout, after she had boxed Paul Jones's ears, and the commotion had ceased. "A play!" Peter put down his knife and fork, masticated and swallowed the food that was in his mouth, and sat staring at his wife in astonishment. "Yes," replied Mrs. Stout, "and we're all goin' to be in it. It'll be the biggest thing this town ever saw or heard of." "You, goin' on the stage?" said Peter, with a grin, and then he gave way to hearty laughter. "I don't see what there is to laugh about, Peter Stout; ain't we got as much right to give a play as anybody?" asked Mrs. Stout, indignantly. "Yes, it's all right, and if the play is as funny as the idea, it'll make a hit," said Peter, his mirth subsiding. "It ain't goin' to be funny," retorted Mrs. Stout. "It's goin' to be a classic." "A classic," he repeated, wonderingly. "What's that?" "A classic," replied Mrs. Stout, knowingly, "is somethin' you ought to know about, and--and don't." "Oh," said Peter, still in doubt. "I hope you're satisfied now." "I guess so; I'll wait till I've seen the play before I say anything more about it." "I guess you'd better," said Mrs. Stout, triumphantly. "Paul Jones, take your fingers out of that sauce." Paul Jones obeyed, and licked the sauce from his fingers. "Ma, is your club goin' to have a ball-nine?" asked Wendell Phillips. He played first base on the Manville Juveniles, which was the only club he knew anything about. "No, we ain't, Wendell," his mother replied. "Don't you boys get any silly notions about clubs into your heads." "Ma'd make a bully catcher," suggested Henry Warren. "Stop your nonsense about baseball or you'll all go to bed," commanded Mrs. Stout, in a tone that the youngsters could not fail to understand.