Mrs. Gordon departed and Harriet sewed on the button. “There, Johnny, now you’re all right. You can run out and play.”
But Johnny became suddenly galvanized into action. He dived into a small pocket 185 and produced a note, crumpled and soiled, but still legible.
“If that isn’t provoking!” said Harriet, when she had read it. “Why didn’t you give me this the first thing, Johnny? Then Mother could have done this telephoning, too, at the Blisses’.”
“What is it?” asked Elliott.
“A message Johnny’s mother wants sent. She’s our hired man’s wife and I must say at times she shows about as much brains as a chicken. You’d think she’d know our ’phone wouldn’t be likely to work, if hers didn’t. Now I shall have to go over to the Blisses’ myself, I suppose. The message seems fairly important. Where has your mother gone, Johnny?”
But Johnny didn’t know; beyond a vague “she wided away” he was non-committal.
“She might have stopped somewhere and telephoned for herself, I should think,” grumbled Harriet. “I’ll be back 186 in a few minutes. Or will you come, too? If I can’t ’phone from the Blisses’ I may have to go farther.”
“I’ll stay here, I think, and wash up my dishes. And after that I’ll finish the peas.”
“Mercy me, I shan’t be gone that long! We’re shelling these to put up, you know. Don’t bother about washing your dishes, either. They’ll keep.”
“Who’s saying bother, now?” Elliott’s dimples twinkled mischievously.