"Get it? Made it up, of course," returned the boy, with evident pride in his tale.
"It must be splendid to be able to make up such stories!" sighed
Polly enviously. "I'd give almost anything if I could do it."
"I should hope if you tried, yours would hang together a little better," said Molly who, in virtue of her relationship, felt privileged to be as critical as she chose. "It's a mystery to me how he could move round to dig up the floor when all his bones were broken, and I never heard that you could use a banjo for a shovel and then play on it, or hit a man hard enough to kill him, and not break it.'
"I don't care for all that," said Polly enthusiastically. "Anybody could tell a story and get rid of those things. What I like is the things he did, he was so brave and so true, and then his not touching any of the uncle's money was the best part of it all, when he needed it so much."
"But he stole the uncle's horse," objected Jean.
"He didn't steal it, he only took it home. And speaking of horses, I wonder what's become of Job." And Polly leaned forward to peer out of the window.
"There he is, over in the next lot," said Jessie.
Dr. Adams's house stood far back from the street, and next to it was a deep, vacant lot at the very rear of which Job was aimlessly wandering about, pausing now and then to nip at the tender green blades that were pushing their way up through the brown, dead turf.
"What ever sent him in there!" said Polly. "I don't see how we can get him home."
"Let him alone long enough, and he'll come," predicted Molly. "It's no use to chase him round and round, and if you drive him out into the street, he'll run away."