He was a plump-cheeked, snub-nosed boy, with a wide, smiling mouth, dancing brown eyes, and an active, sturdy body. Like his chum, he was ten years old.
"Thought you had to work all this forenoon, cleaning the back yard?" said Bobby. "That's why I stayed home. 'Fraid some of the other fellows would want me to go off with them, and we agreed to go to Plunkit's Creek this afternoon, you know."
"You bet you!" agreed Fred. "I got a dandy can of worms. Found 'em under that pile of rubbish in the yard when I hauled it out."
"But you haven't cleared up all that old yard so soon?" determined Bobby, shaking his head.
Fred grinned again. "No," he said. "I caught Buster Shea. He's a good fellow, Buster is. I got him to do it for me, and paid him a cent, and my ten glass agates, and two big alleys, and a whole cage-trap full o' rats—five of them—we caught in our barn last night. He's goin' to take 'em home and see if he can tame 'em, like Poley Smith did."
"Huh!" snorted Bobby, "Poley's are white rats. You can't tame reg'lar rats."
"That wasn't for me to tell him," returned Fred, briskly. "Buster thinks he can. And, anyway, it was a good bargain without the rats. He'll clean the yard fine."
"Then let's get a lunch from Meena and I'll find my fish-tackle, and we'll start at once," exclaimed Bobby, jumping up.
"Ain't you got to see your mother first?"
"She knows I'm going. She won't mind when I go, as long as I get back in time for supper. And then—she ain't so particular 'bout what I do just now," added Bobby, more slowly.