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; and she said cle'r out and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that and dinner she'd skin us.  So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron-pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and Jim got it all right, along with her shingle nail, before noon.  We was very well satisfied with this business, and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said _now_ she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she _did_; and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next three days he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any more. So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn't _care_, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not to save her life; she druther die first. So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as to the cand