"And it is my shirt. And it's my pants, and all!" cried Fred. "I'll get square with Ap Plunkit yet—you see if I don't. There's the old ragged things this scarecrow wore, on the ground. And he's dressed it in my things. Oh, you wait till I catch him!"
Meanwhile Fred was hastily tearing off the garments that certainly were his own. They were all here. Bobby kept away from him, and laughed silently to himself. It was really too, too funny; but he did not want to make Fred angry with him.
"Now I guess we'd better not go to the farmhouse—had we?" demanded Bobby.
"Let's go home," grunted Fred, very sour. "It's almost sundown."
"All right," agreed his chum.
"He tore my shirt, too. And we might never have found these clothes. I'm going to get square," Fred kept muttering, as they struck right down between the corn rows toward the distant roadside fence.
Just as they climbed over the rails to leap into the road they were hailed by a voice that said:
"Hey there! what you doin' in that cornfield?"
There was the Plunkit hopeful—otherwise Applethwaite, the white-headed boy. He sat on the top rail near by and grinned at the two boys from town.
"There you are—you mean thing!" cried Fred Martin, and before Bobby could stop him, he rushed at the bigger fellow.