Mrs.Armstrong and Barbara, who had followed him, watched these facial gymnastics, the lady with astonishment, her daughter with expectant interest.
"I know what he is doing that for, Mamma," she whispered.

"It's because he's thinking and don't know whether to whistle or not.
When he thinks AWFUL hard he's almost sure to whistle--or sing." "Hush, hush, Babbie!" "Oh, he won't hear us.

He hardly ever hears any one when he's thinking like that.

And see, Mamma, he IS going to whistle." Sure enough, their guest whistled a few mournful bars, breaking off suddenly to observe: "I hope there wan't any bones in it." "Bones in what?
What do you mean, Mr.Winslow ?" queried Mrs.
Armstrong, who was puzzled, to say the least.
"Eh?
Oh, I hope there wan't any bones in that mackerel Heman's cat got away with.

If there was it might choke or somethin'." "Good gracious! I shouldn't worry over that possibility, if I were you.