Dick smiled ruefully. “I don’t reckon they were much worse scared than I was,� he said to himself. “What—who on earth could that have been?�
CHAPTER VII
AT last and at last, school was out! Patsy, free and merry as a bird, wrote a long letter to Anne Lewis.
She begged Anne to hurry and come to The Village. There were so many things to do! Camp Feed Friend was getting on famously; Anne would see it was better than the boys’ Camp Fight Foe. Happy Acres was a bower of roses; they would take their knitting to the summerhouse every day. Anne remembered—of course she remembered—Dick’s dare and double dare about their following him and finding out what he was doing? They must certainly do that. He went off every few days, no one knew where. David and Steve had tried to follow him, but Dick led them a chase—like an old red fox, Cousin Mayo said—for miles and miles, and then back home. It was certainly a secret, and she and Anne must find it out. And Patsy ended as she began; begging Anne to hurry and come to The Village.
It was such an important letter that Patsy took it to the post office herself to put it into Mr. Blair’s own hand, feeling that would make it go more surely and safely than if she dropped it into the letter box. She had to wait awhile, for he was talking to Mr. Spencer who had come in just before her.
“We missed you at church yesterday, Joe,� said Mr. Blair. “What’s the matter? You look seedy.�
“It’s malaria, I reckon,� Mr. Spencer said in a weak, listless voice. “I stayed in bed yesterday, but I don’t feel much better to-day.�
“You ought not to have got up,� said Mr. Blair.
“I have to crawl around and do all the work I can. Crop’s in the grass, Will. Give me two plow points and half a dozen bolts; I must start a plow to-morrow. And I ought to be a dozen hoe hands at the same time.�
“Can’t you hire hands?�