Читать книгу Prince Dusty. A Story of the Oil Regions онлайн

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Cynthia would not have been guilty of any such unkindness. Her eyes opened wide as she listened to the tale her Prince told of his own deeds, and she was just catching her breath to tell him how splendid she thought them, when they were startled by the sound of a harsh voice, calling, “Arthur! Cynthia! come into the house this minute, you naughty children. Don’t you know better than to be staying out there breathing the night air?”

“A boy must breathe some kind of air, Aunt Nancy, and when it is night time I don’t see how he can help breathing night air,” laughed Arthur, as he reached the house; for not even his aunt’s harsh tones could at once dispel his good spirits.

“What do you mean by talking back to me?” asked Mrs. Dustin. “I say that night air is poison, and no member of my family, even if he is a young interloper, shall breathe a drop of it, not so long as I can help it. Now, not another word. I know where you’ve been this whole blessed afternoon. You’ve been off with Brace Barlow, who ought to have more sense than to encourage your badness, shooting wells, and trying to get yourself blown into mince-meat, just to make more trouble for me. Yes, I know all about it, in spite of your sly ways. Now, you may go right to bed, and not a morsel of supper shall you have this night, which may be it’ll be a lesson that you will remember for one while, anyway.”