“He’s mean, isn’t he, Maggie?” appealed Ned.
“That he is. He’ll come to the gallows; he will. An’ all that South Beaufort gang, too. Yes, I know ’em,” declared Maggie, wagging her head. “They’re regular little divils.”
“Maggie!” exclaimed Mrs. Miller, somewhat shocked.
“Well, they’d better not tackle us fellows again,” asserted Ned, swaggering out for another armful of wood.
Maggie gazed after him admiringly.
“Sure, an’ I bet he’s a fighter when he gets started,” she mused. “Look at them legs an’ arms! An’ Big Mike twice his size, too.”
“Maggie,” reproved Mrs. Miller, “I don’t want you to encourage Ned in fighting. I don’t like it.”
And she withdrew in dignity to the sitting-room, where, safe in privacy, she did not know whether to laugh or be provoked. At any rate, she did not relish the idea of her Neddie going about with a chip on his shoulder, challenging boys “twice his size,” according to Maggie.
Mr. Miller, coming home, from afar descried Ned’s turban as it bobbed around in the back yard.
“Hello,” he hailed. “That’s a new kind of cap, isn’t it?”