 to have been a Dodson, and to have one child who took after her
own family, at least in his features and complexion, in liking salt and in
eating beans, which a Tulliver never did.
    In other respects the true Dodson was partly latent in Tom, and he was as
far from appreciating his »kin« on the mother's side as Maggie herself;
generally absconding for the day with a large supply of the most portable food,
when he received timely warning that his aunts and uncles were coming; a moral
symptom from which his aunt Glegg deduced the gloomiest views of his future. It
was rather hard on Maggie that Tom always absconded without letting her into the
secret, but the weaker sex are acknowledged to be serious impedimenta in cases
of flight.
    On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were coming, there were
such various and suggestive scents, as of plumcakes in the oven and jellies in
the hot state, mingled with the aroma of gravy, that it was impossible to feel
altogether gloomy: there was hope in the air. Tom and Maggie made several
inroads into the kitchen, and, like other marauders, were induced to keep aloof
for a time only by being allowed to carry away a sufficient load of booty.
    »Tom,« said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder-tree, eating
their jam puffs, »shall you run away to-morrow?«
    »No,« said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and was eyeing the
third, which was to be divided between them - »No, I shan't.«
    »Why, Tom? Because Lucy's coming?«
    »No,« said Tom, opening his pocket-knife and holding it over the puff, with
his head on one side in a dubitative manner. (It was a difficult problem to
divide that very irregular polygon into two equal parts.) »What do I care about
Lucy? She's only a girl - she can't play at bandy.«
    »Is it the tipsy-cake, then?« said Maggie, exerting her hypothetic powers,
while she leaned forward towards Tom with her eyes fixed on the hovering knife.
    »No, you silly, that'll be good the day after. It's the pudden. I know what
the pudden's to be - apricot roll-up - O my buttons!«
    With this interjection, the knife descended on the puff and it was in two,
but the result was not satisfactory to Tom,
