“Stop, cook!” screamed Eunice, hanging on her arm; “it’s Cricket, cook, and it’s me.”
Cook paused with uplifted arm, and Cricket, decidedly the worse for wear, took the opportunity to scramble out of the hole, exclaiming, “We’re only pretending, cook, and we truly didn’t mean to scare you so badly.”
Cook looked down on the little figures, about a third as large as herself, and laughed grimly.
“Scare me, is it? Shure, I think the shoe’s on the other fut. But you’re always up to your tricks.”
“Oh, you didn’t really scare me,” said Cricket, “only you did hurt me a little when you grabbed me by the nape of the arm. But I wouldn’t have told if Eunice hadn’t.”
“But I didn’t want you to get hurt, Cricket. Come on, let’s go into the orchard and get some harvest apples. Good-by, cook,” and the little tramps ran off, hand in hand.
CHAPTER XII.
THE TRAMPS.
Once in the orchard, they felt as if their feet were on their native heath, and they were up, in a twinkling, among the branches of their favourite tree.
In the munching of apples they quite forgot that they were tramps, until Cricket remarked that her hump made a most convenient pillow for her to lean back against.
“These clothes are getting awfully hot, Cricket,” said Eunice. “I wouldn’t be a boy for anything I can think of, to wear such things all the time.”