“Good for him,” commented Tom. “He’s the real sort, and he’s got father on his side all right.”
Kindness, attention and the prospect of work seemed to have wrought a marvellous change in Harry. He little suggested the homeless forlorn refuge of the previous night as he sat at the breakfast table. He was lively and chatty, acting the pleasant chum with Tom, the grateful guest to motherly Mrs. Barnes, and narrating comical experiences with amateur farmers he had worked for to Mr. Barnes, keeping the latter in rare good humor throughout the meal.
About an hour later Ben arrived on the scene.
“Say, Tom,” was his first sprightly hail, “Father says I’ve been hopping about like a chicken with her head cut off ever since I got up—and that was five o’clock.”
“What’s the trouble, Ben?” inquired Tom with a smile, guessing.
“Fever—the wireless kind,” chuckled Ben. “I’ve got five fellows down at the old oak ready to give all day to helping me get the outfit in down at my house. Say, Tom, give me the key to the tower and let me get that box of trimmings Mr. Edson gave us, will you?”
“I shall have to go on duty at the station soon, Ben,” explained Tom, “but here’s the key. Get down to the oak right away, and I’ll instruct you how to dismantle my unfinished plant and start you in at your house. Then at noon I’ll give you another hour.”
“You’d better come right up to our house for supper, Tom,” suggested Ben, “and we can have two full working hours by daylight after you quit work.”
“Very well,” agreed Tom gladly.
Never did a boy spend a more entrancing day than Ben Dixon. His helpers at the blasted oak were delighted to climb like monkeys to remove the spirals and wires from the old tree, and handle the queer contrivances contained in the box Mr. Edson had donated.