While Sammy was splashing in the bath a shout of laughter from Neale brought Mrs. Heard and the two older girls to the door of the boys’ bedroom.
“What is the matter, Neale O’Neil?” demanded Ruth.
Neale was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rocking himself to and fro, and weak from laughter. “Look what the kid’s brought with him in his bag!” gasped the older boy. “I was looking for his night clothes—and something clean for him to put on in the morning. See the mess of stuff I found, will you?”
It was a self-evident fact that Mrs. Pinkney, Sammy’s mother, did not pack her little son’s suitcase.
Neale had hauled out first of all a tangle of fishing tackle; a baking-powder box, well filled with a supply of squirmy fish-worms, kept moist in black soil that had sifted all over the contents of the bag through the holes in the cover of the box punched to give the worms air. There was Sammy’s air-rifle in two sections and a plentiful supply of ammunition; a banana reduced to pulp; a bottle of matches; a sling-shot; a much-rusted bread-knife with its edge patiently ground upon a whetstone—evidently Sammy’s idea of a hunting-knife or a bowie-knife.
In addition there was a very grubby-looking pocket-handkerchief in which were tightly tied two slimy garden snails; there was a piece of candy in a soiled paper, with a buffalo nickel imbedded in the confection; two brass wheels out of the works of a clock; last Sunday’s lesson paper; two horse-chestnuts; and a pint flask with very suggestive looking contents.
“What?” gasped Mrs. Heard. “That boy carrying liquor?”
“And snails!” ejaculated Agnes.
“Such a mess!” exclaimed Ruth.
“But snails or the worms or anything else there,” said the widow, severely, “will not steal away men’s brains and make them ill. Where did that boy get whisky—or is it brandy?” she added.