Steve was most taciturn at the table the following morning; his moody
silence puzzled even Sarah Hunter. But when the latter, whose Sunday
schedule no storm could alter, came home from church and found Caleb
and the boy immersed in a mass of flies and leaders, and lines which
had been skeined to dry, her thorough disapproval loosed the boy's
tongue. She stood in the doorway surveying with a frown their
preoccupied industry.
"It seems to me, Cal," she commented, "that even if _you_ haven't any
regard for the Sabbath, you might do better than lead those younger
than yourself into doing things which might better be left for days
which were meant for such things."
She swished upstairs before Caleb had a chance to answer. But minutes
after she had gone Steve looked up from a line he was spooling.
"She ain't particularly pleased, I take it," he remarked.
"Not particularly," Caleb chuckled. "It's funny, too, because I do
most of this sort of work on Sunday. You'd think she'd become resigned
to it, but she doesn't."
The boy thought deeply for a while.
"Didn't--didn't the 'Postles cast their nets on Sunday?" he asked
presently.
Up shot Caleb's head.
"Huh-h-h?" he gasped.
"I sed--didn't the 'Postles cast their nets on Sunday?" Steve repeated.
"Seems to me they did, but I can't just rec'lict now what chapter it
was in."
Caleb pulled his face into a semblance of sobriety.
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