“Well, what if he did?” said Pee Wee mischievously. “He only told the truth, didn’t he?”
“What difference does that make?” flared up Fred, who was rather sensitive on the subject. “You wouldn’t like to be called a pig because you’re as fat as one, would you?”
“Here, fellows, cut out your scrapping,” soothed Bobby.
“Let’s agree that Pee Wee’s as thin as a rail and Fred’s hair is as black as ink,” suggested Mouser. “Then we’ll all be happy.”
In the general laugh that followed, the rumpled feathers were smoothed and all differences forgotten.
A moment later the whistle of the train was heard in the distance.
“Here she comes!” cried Mouser.
“I’m sorry that telegram hasn’t come yet,” murmured Bobby regretfully.
“Guess old Bailey’s rheumatism made him slow in getting up to the house,” suggested Fred.
“Well, don’t let’s worry,” observed Pee Wee, who was always ready to shunt his responsibilities to the shoulders of somebody else. “Mr. Stone will look after that.”