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't think there's ten.” “You numskull, didn't you see me _count 'm?_” “I know, but--” “Well, I'll count 'm _again_.” So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time.  Well, she _was_ in a tearing way--just a-trembling all over, she was so mad.  But she counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right, and three times they come out wrong.  Then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west;