"Sure I did. There wasn't anything but a postal from pa," came the answer from the bushes. "He's coming home next week, and then it'll be nothing but work in the garden all day long. Hand us the can of worms, like a good sport, won't you?"
"Where did you hide them?" asked Betty absently.
"Under the wheelbarrow, there at the end of the arbor," directed Ted. "Thanks awfully, Betty."
"Where's George?" she asked. "Isn't there another mail at eleven, Ted?"
"Oh, Betty, how you do harp on one subject," complained Ted, poking about in his can of worms with a stick, but keeping carefully out of sight of the kitchen window and the maternal eye. "Hardly anything ever comes in that eleven o'clock mail. Anyway, didn't mother say your uncle would probably come without bothering to write again?"
"I suppose he will," sighed Betty. "Only it seems so long to wait. Where did you say George was?"
Ted answered reluctantly.
"He's in swimming."
"Well I must say! You wait till your father comes home," said Betty ominously.
The boys had been forbidden to go swimming in the treacherous creek hole, and George was where he had no business to be.