“Yes,� said Mr. Mallett. “He’s mighty stirred up ’bout this war. What have we got to do with Europe’s war that started with the killing of a little prince in a country I’d never heard tell of? But Fayett’s got a notion in his head— Here! I’ve got to fix some rivets. Don’t you want to blow the bellows?�
“I wish I had time,� said Dick. “I’ve got to go home. I—I haven’t finished my garden work.�
“Then I reckon you’ll save it for another day,� said the smith. “Sun’s ’most down.�
Its long rays lay like a red-gold band across The Street, as Dick started home, wishing—too late!—that he had finished his garden task and postponed his adventuring to another day. Seeing his father on the porch, the truant slipped behind the boxwood at the edge of the walk. But Mr. Osborne called, “Dick!� and then more sternly, “Richard!�
It was useless to pretend not to hear.
“Sir!� Dick answered meekly.
“Have you completed your garden work?�
“Not—not quite, sir,� said Dick. “I am just going to it now, sir. I can get a lot done before dark. And I’ll get up soon Monday morning, and finish it, sir, indeed I will.�
“My son,—� Mr. Osborne spoke in a magisterial voice and took Dick by the arm.
Just then the front gate clicked, and Black Mayo came up the walk.