“I say, Frank,” he called out at last, going up on the porch, and poking his head in at a window, “what are you doing?”
“‘The king was in the parlor, counting out his money,’”
answered Frank.
“How much, king?”
“Twenty—thirty—thirty-five,” said Frank, “one dollar and thirty-five cents. How do you figure?”
“Two, fifteen. Come out here, I want to tell you something.”
Frank, who was two years younger than Tom appeared.
“What’s up?” he asked, throwing himself into the hammock which hung from the roof of the porch, and swinging lazily.
“Would it break your heart, and smash the fellows generally, if we didn’t go to the meeting on the green to-morrow evening, after all the fuss we’ve made about it?”
“What?” asked Frank, in a tone of surprise, assuming a sitting position so suddenly that the hammock—hammocks are treacherous things—gave a sudden lurch, and landed him on the floor.