“What a mean, hateful, nasty set of fellows!” was George’s natural comment. “They must be fond of prowling around bone-heaps; and handling them; and carrying them up and down the country; eh, Marmaduke? They ought to be told off—clapper-clawed—bastinadoed—soused in hot water! We’ll fix them some day; won’t we?”
“Only,” Steve observed, “we didn’t finger the bones as you two did; we put them into a basket, and then brought ’em here, and dumped ’em out—without once touching ’em! Therefore, I advise you both to lather and scrub your paws with all the soap you can find. Scrub ’em hard, boys, if you know what is good for ’em.”
“Yes,” put in Will, “it is polite to handle skeletons and fossils, but not vulgar bones like these.”
“Oh! what scurvy boys!” was all poor George could say.
As for Marmaduke, he held his tongue, being too sulky, too horrified, to do more than gurgle out a few dismal moans.
“Well, boys,” said Charley, “it will soon be dinnertime; so let us cover up these mysterious old bones, and start for home and the soap-barrel.”
But George was recovering his equilibrium, and he thirsted for revenge. A light that boded no good to his deceivers shone in his eyes; he was bent on mischief.
“Look here, boys,” he began, “how do you know these are the same bones you accumulated? We stumbled around in the woods just as it happened; we found ourselves here; and Will suddenly found himself floundering in this brush-heap. Can you prove this is the place you think it is?”
“It is not likely that there are bones under all these bushes, George;” said Charley. “Besides, we took notice where we were going, and we’ve often been here. I’m certain its the place.”