“Now, George,” said the latter, as he shouldered his gun and fishing-rod, which he had tied together so that they could be easily carried, “how much do we owe you?”
“Not a red cent,” was George’s reply.
“Cheap enough,” said Dick. “We’ll come again.”
“I hope you will. I shall be glad to see you at any time—that is, if you can be satisfied with such poor accommodations as I have to offer you.”
“Say nothing about that!” exclaimed Bob. “What better accommodations can we ask for than a tight roof, a good bed and plenty to eat and drink?”
“And good hunting and fishing within a stone’s throw of your door,” chimed in Dick. “You may expect us next Friday evening. We can get away every week if we only behave ourselves during study hours, and I am perfectly willing to be good for five consecutive days for the sake of enjoying such squirrel shooting as I had this morning.”
As the nearest way to the village was through Mr. Stebbins’ sheep pasture, George took his guests across the lake in his boat, thus saving them a three-mile walk.
After putting them on the road, and giving them explicit directions regarding the course they were to follow in order to reach the academy, George said good-by, and set out on his return to the lake; but while he was crossing the sheep pasture he was confronted by Mr. Stebbins, who, in no amiable tones, demanded to know what he was doing there, and what business he had to bring those young vagabonds on his grounds.
“They are not vagabonds,” replied George, with some spirit. “They are gentlemen, and that is more than I can say for some other people I know.”
“I don’t want none of your sass!” snapped the old man, angrily, at the same time whisking a heavy black snake whip he carried in his hand. “I tell you that I don’t like the looks of them fellers.”