spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without _him_ knowing it--stop up his rat-holes.” There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape.  Then we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before last.  He went a mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all.  Then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking.  Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying: “Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I done it.  I could show her now that I warn't to blame on account of the rats.  But never mind--let it go.  I reckon it wouldn't do no good.” And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left.  He was a mighty nice old man.  And always is. Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a think.  When he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and Tom says: “Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons _yet_.” She says: “Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me.  I know better, I counted 'm myself.” “Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't make but nine.” She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count--anybody would. “I declare to gracious ther' _ain't_ but nine!” she says. “Why, what in the world--plague _take_ the things, I'll count 'm again.” So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says: “Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's _ten_ now!” and she looked huffy and bothered both.  But Tom says: “Why, Aunty, I don