“Why, mother, how should I know? I was off to the lemon house early, fixing some shelves. I haven’t seen her to-day and it makes it a long one.”
Came “Marty” from his garden, a hoe over one shoulder and a mighty vine of ripened tomatoes over the other, exclaiming:
“How’s this for a second year’s growth? I thought you’d like ’em for catsup, Aunt Sally, and what’s the horn for?”
“George Ceomarty, where’s the ‘captain’?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t! You don’t!” indignantly.
“No. How should I? Last I saw, she was sitting the porch along with you. You needn’t glare at me so, but say yourself: ‘Where’s the “captain”?’”
“Come, gardener, this ain’t a time for foolin’.”
He disdained to answer, reading the anxiety upon his mistress’ face, and feeling an unaccountable one growing in his own mind.