“How’d I know? I been down there to the lake, but you don’t reckon I been over where she is? But she looks fine as silk.”
“You’ve got to help me to-day, Josh,” went on Bud, beginning to skin off his chum’s long night gown.
Josh had come up to the window and was peering into the sacred precincts of the spare room.
“That’s what I calklated,” he said, setting down his steaming milk pail. “An’ that’s why I didn’t dig over in the mud when I was down to see her. We got trompin’ enough ’thout lookin’ for more.”
The bedroom was cool and grateful; the high feather bed, with its blue and white tasseled counterpane looked more than tempting, but Bud had only two thoughts now—he smelled frying ham, and he was anxious to see whether his airship was injured.
“Where’s my clothes?” he exclaimed, looking for them in vain.
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” explained Josh. “They’re dryin’. You can’t wear them pants afore noon. I dunno as yo’ kin wear ’em then.”
“But my shoes?”
“Them’s as bad. We got oats in ’em dryin’ ’em out. Mother washed your pants first thing this mornin’.”