“That’s a go,” agreed Ned. “I’m dead tired,” and at once turning aside, with a grunt of relief he threw himself upon the grass by the hedge that skirted the road.
Hal lost no time in copying his example.
Mellowed by the damp night air, from the scene of the late hostilities floated to them the fitful voice of the yellow dog, as he continued to tell his family all about it. Of course he made out to them that the boys were a band of determined robbers, whom he had surprised and put to flight.
The moon, just rising, was shedding an uncertain light over the landscape.
“Slice her open,” suggested Hal—referring to the melon, not to the moon.
Already Ned was fumbling with a battered jack-knife, trying to divide the prize in a scientific fashion, so as to give each some of the heart.
It was a mighty tough rind. Could the melon be green, after all! He worked as rapidly as he could, considering the poor light, and the impatient remarks of Hal, who was getting thirstier and thirstier.
Victory! He managed to stick his fingers in a crack, and with a tug pulled the stubborn mass apart.
“Here,” he said, passing Hal a chunk.
He himself took the mate to it, and carried to his mouth a handful of the spongy, stringy stuff.