Bob had long been put away; still Ned often dreamed of him, and while knowing that such a thing was impossible, was always expecting to meet him, suddenly, around some corner. No other dog would Ned have, although his father told him to get whatever kind he chose. To Bob—faithful, human Bob,—there could be no second.
The long vacation had begun, and Ned was making his morning attack upon his eleven loads of slabs—that annual visitation to which he was subjected—when he heard a familiar whistle, answered it according to the code, and presently saw Hal climb over the alley fence.
“Hello,” greeted Hal. “Got to work?”
“Yes,” replied Ned, gloomily. “Just look at the wood, will you!”
“Want to know something?” queried Hal—news fairly sticking out all over him. “Well, listen here. What do you suppose old Belton has got planted ’way off behind his house! Watermelons!”
He paused in order to give his audience time to swallow the startling fact.
“Whereabouts?” asked Ned, delight in his tone.
“Near the ravine, beyond the grapes,” answered Hal. “He thinks he has them hid, I guess; but I ran slap into them yesterday when I was taking a short cut to the creek. Come on, and I’ll show you.”
“I can’t come now,” said Ned, slowly. “I’ve got to pile wood till noon. But I’ll go with you right away after dinner.”
“Well, you come around, then,” agreed Hal.