Anne put a comforting arm around Sweet William. “Don’t cry, dear,� she said.
He stiffened his lips bravely. “I—I’m not crying,� he announced. “I—I think I caught a cold. I’ve got a frog in my throat. I wish I could find a lot of potato bugs! I want to work hard to help all those poor people.�
He set to work very diligently, but presently David called out: “You Bill! You’re wearing out those potato plants, looking for the bugs you caught yesterday. And every row I plow, you’re in my way.�
“I isn’t not moved since I got out your way the other time you told me to,� complained Sweet William, stumbling over a furrow.
“Well, get out of the patch and stay out till I finish this plowing, if you please,� said David, who was warm and tired and getting cross.
The little fellow turned away with injured dignity and went into the back yard. He sat on the porch steps for a while, then he began rummaging around. Presently he came back into the garden, with his arms full of little sticks, and busied himself in a corner where the war gardeners had a bed of radishes for work-day refreshment.
“What are you doing now?� Anne stopped to ask.
“Playing this is my garden. I’m building a fence ’round it,� explained Sweet William.
“Phew! What a horrid smell! It smells like—why, I smell kerosene oil,� said Anne, sniffing and frowning.
“I reckon it’s these little sticks,� he said. “They’re all smelly.�