now that. All
she knew was that he made a corking job of her embroidery frame and so
one day when some Georgia gentlemen were there at dinner and were
telling how hard it was to get the seeds out of cotton she up and said,
'You should ask Mr. Whitney how to do it; he can do anything,' and to
prove it she toted out her embroidery frame to show them."

"Did _what_?"

"Oh, say, Ma, don't keep bothering me when I'm trying to tell you a
story," Carl complained peevishly. "You know what I mean well enough."

"Much as ever," was the grim reply.

The lad grinned.

"Well, anyhow, the Georgia cotton men talked to Eli Whitney, explaining
how the cotton stuck to the seeds and got all broken to bits when you
tried to get them out; and how it took nearly a whole day to separate a
pound of cotton fiber from the seeds. And then the cotton planters went
on to tell how there was lots and lots of land in the South where you
couldn't raise rice but could raise cotton if it wasn't such a chore--"
(a warning glance from his mother caused Carl hastily to amend the
phrase) "such a piece of work to get the seeds out. Eli Whitney
listened to their talk and after the men had gone he thought he'd try
to make some sort of a machine that would clear cotton of the seeds."

"And did he?"

"You betcha! I mean, yes, he did. Whitney was no boob." (This time Mrs.
McGregor failed to protest; perhaps she decided it was useless.) "He
had, as I told you, made wheels and canes and knives and nails in his
father's workshop at home. He had even made a violin. So he wasn't at
all fussed about trying to make a cotton gin. I guess he had a hunch he
could do it."

"A _what_?" gasped Mrs. McGregor involuntarily.

"A hunch means he knew he could turn the trick."

The mother shook her head ruefully.

"And me almost killing myself to give you an education!" she ejaculated
beneath her breath.

"Well, anyway, Ma, slang or no slang, I'd be telling you nothing at all
about Eli Whitney if I hadn't gone to school, so cheer up," asserted
Carl impishly.

He heard his mother laugh. Mrs. McGregor had the good old Scotch sense
of humor and when her flashing smile came it was always a delight to
the beholder.

"You're a good boy, Carl, if you do speak the language of an orang-outang,"
she answered. "Where you pick up such a dialect I cannot imagine."

"Oh, it's easy enough to pick it up, Ma. The stunt is not to. Why, what
I've been saying just now is nothing to