“Where’s Harry?” I asked of his mother whom I found alone.
“Why, you didn’t expect to find him at home, did you? He won’t be back for a number of days yet.”
(Another subdued giggle from the next room.)
“You’re as wet as a drowned rat!” went on the motherly woman. “What on earth started you out in this rain?”
“It’s that Hattie’s work!” I burst out angrily, and told her the whole story.
“Dear me!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands, despairingly, “I never did see such a torment as that girl is! I noticed she has seemed very much tickled over something! I’ll give her a real scolding!”
I darted out the door; and, as I splashed my way disconsolately down to the road, I heard a voice, struggling between repentance and a desire to laugh, call after me:
“Forgive me, Charlie, but it was such a joke!”
Hattie never meddled with her brother’s signals again. For her mother’s displeasure and the severe cold that followed my drenching more than balanced the enjoyment she derived from that very practical joke.