“Them Dickersons!” exclaimed Mrs. Atterson.
“Perhaps. That Pete, maybe. If I once caught him up to his tricks I'd make him sorry enough.”
“Tell the constable, Hi,” cried Sister, angrily.
“That would make trouble for his folks. Maybe they don't know just how mean Pete is. A good thrashing—and the threat of another every time he did anything mean—would do him lots more good.”
This wasn't nice Sunday work, but it was too far to carry water from the house to the horse trough, so Hiram had to repair the pump.
On Monday morning he routed out Sister and Mr. Camp at daybreak. He had been up and out for an hour himself, and on a bench under the shed he had heaped two or three bushels of radishes which he had pulled and washed, ready for bunching.
He showed his helpers how the pretty scarlet balls were to be bunched, and found that Sister took hold of the work with nimble fingers, while Mr. Camp did very well at the unaccustomed task.
“I don't know, Hi,” said Mrs. Atterson, despondently, “that it's worth while your trying to sell any of the truck, if we're going to leave here so soon.”
“We haven't left yet,” he returned, trying to speak cheerfully. “And you might as well get every penny back that you can. Perhaps an arrangement can be made whereby we can stay and harvest the garden crop, at any rate.”
“You can make up your mind that that Pepper man won't give us any leeway; he isn't that kind,” declared Mother Atterson, with conviction.