“Know any better’n what?” demanded the bone-weary Sammy, in no mood to endure scolding in any case. “Ain’t I done it all right? I bet you can’t find a weed in that whole bed, so now.”
“Great grief, kid!” gasped the older boy, seeing that Sammy was quite in earnest, “I don’t believe you’ve left anything but weeds in those rows. It—it’s a knock-out!”
“Aw—I never,” gulped Sammy. “I guess I know beets.”
“Huh! It looks as though you don’t even know beans,” chortled Neale, unable to keep his gravity. “What a mess! Mrs. McCall will be as sore as she can be.”
“I don’t care!” cried the tired boy wildly. “I saved just what Aggie told me to, and threw away everything else. And see how the rows are.”
“Why, Sammy, those aren’t where the rows of beets were at all. See! These are beets. Those are weeds. Oh, great grief!” and the older boy went off into another gale of laughter.
“I—I do-o-on’t care,” wailed Sammy. “I did just what Aggie told me to. And I want my half dollar.”
“You want to be paid for wasting all Mrs. McCall’s beets?”
“I don’t care, I earned it.”
Neale could not deny the statement. As far as the work went, Sammy certainly had spent time and labor on the unfortunate task.