"He fell through," Foster said casually.
"Oh, Davey," cried Mrs. Blake. "Are you soaked? What will your mother say!"
"I dried off all right; it was a good long time ago," Davey assured her. "So she won't care."
"Well, I just hope you don't catch cold!"
All of them, in straggling procession, trailed along the nearly obliterated drive. Mr. Blake had a swollen thumb from banging it with a hammer; Uncle Jake had a crick in his back. Mrs. Blake had a bruise on her shinbone, and Aunt Hilda had one on her elbow. Julian had a cut on his hand, and Portia had a splinter under her fingernail. As for the little boys, their jeans were stuck with last year's burs; old goldenrod fuzz clung to their sweaters; and where the brambles had managed to reach their skin, they were scratched.
"We look more like a left-over army than ever," Mr. Blake observed. "But I'm not quite sure whether we're the victors or the vanquished."
"Why, we're the victors, Daddy. You know that!" Portia chided him.
"I wish all battles were as pleasant," her mother said. Then she said: "I don't think yellow after all. No. Something warmer. Coral or rose; or a rose pattern."
"Linoleum?" Foster asked.
"Curtains," replied his mother.