The melon had not felt precisely right—and certainly it did not taste precisely right!
“Faugh!” exclaimed Hal.
“Wa-a-a-a!” exclaimed Ned.
How they sputtered! Their melon was a squash!
Words cannot express their disgust. They had missed the melon-patch entirely. All that trouble for only a squash! And now their chances had been ruined. The squire would be on his guard.
“Come on—let’s go home,” blurted Ned; and the two stiffly stood up. Stiffly it was, indeed, for their spirits had been most effectually “squashed,” and they began to be conscious of tokens of their recent flight. They were drenched with dew. Every inch of their bodies and faces and hands smarted and ached from the briars and collisions with posts, wires, sticks and stones. Their heads throbbed. They were cold, hungry, and completely fagged. They wished they were in bed.
Speaking scarcely another syllable they dragged their heavy feet along the well-nigh endless mile of homeward journey. As they entered the alley the town clock chimed twelve.
They scrambled over the fence, shinned up the porch—so tuckered that they did not care whether or not they made any noise—and tumbled across the bed. Such a soft, soothing bed as that was! Feebly they started to undress as they lay, but they did no more than kick off their shoes, and were asleep.
They slept like logs, until awakened by the rising-bell. Quite in vain would they make themselves respectable, although they tried their level best. All their scrubbings and brushings and pinnings really seemed to improve their appearance not one whit. The raspberry bushes and the barbed wire had been too thorough. Court-plaster, rather than pins, was needed.