“Put a crown of pickled olerves on me,” demanded Moses, “me ’n Jethro beat.” He stood before his sister mopping his face. The express waggon with a wheel off was overturned and a frightened. “Cheep, cheep, cheep” came from beneath it.
“My racer has only one eye anyways,” said Betty defiantly as she twined a piece of nasturtium vine round the noble brow of the victor.
“What’s next?”
Moses was not easily satisfied. His attitude was always that of one who has dined on an undersized shrimp while expecting a ten-course banquet.
“Cleanin’ up’s next, Mose. Take my device an’ shoo away them hens an’ chickings. Mar’ll be home soon.”
“Singe my hair ef I do, let’s hev some more doin’s,” rebelled Moses.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the sound of an approaching team was heard. Betty eyed ruefully the silk shawl she had flung on the ground.
“She’ll be orful mad,” prophecied Moses.
“You young Hottentots, wot youse been up to?” All too soon Moses’ prophecy proved true.
Mrs. Wopp’s eyes fell on the stained shawl.