“Biffkins?” repeated Tom, quickly. “Who’s that?”
Dick indicated me with a little gesture.
“Cecil didn’t seem quite to describe her,” he explained, smiling broadly.
“I think Biffkins a bully name,” said Tom. “Ho!” he added, suddenly, looking at me with quick interest, “was that what you were digging in the garden for?”
“Of course it was,” laughed Dick. “I told her I’d bet she had a blister.”
“Well, maybe she has,” retorted Tom, quickly. “I dare say I’d have one too, if I’d dug up as much dirt as she did. Why, when I looked over the wall—”
A sudden wave of crimson swept over my face and I glanced at Tom appealingly. Only too distinctly did I remember what I was doing when he looked over the wall!
“She was digging away like mad,” he went on calmly; “you should have seen her!”
I shot him a grateful glance. How many boys would have been so generous?
“And he offered to help,” I said. “If it hadn’t been so late—”