“Oh, I didn't mean you,” said Mrs. Mudge, almost out of her wits with perplexity.
“Come in, sir, and let me give you a towel. You've no idea how I've been tried this morning.”
“I trust,” said the Squire, in his stateliest tone, “you will be able to give a satisfactory explanation of this, ahem—extraordinary proceeding.”
While Mrs. Mudge was endeavoring to sooth the ruffled dignity of the aggrieved Squire, the “young scamp,” who had caused all the mischief, made his escape through the fields.
“Oh, wasn't it bully!” he exclaimed. “I believe I shall die of laughing. I wish Paul had been here to see it. Mrs. Mudge has got herself into a scrape, now, I'm thinking.”
Having attained a safe distance from the Poorhouse, Ben doubled himself up and rolled over and over upon the grass, convulsed with laughter.
“I'd give five dollars to see it all over again,” he said to himself. “I never had such splendid fun in my life.”
Presently the Squire emerged, his tall dicky looking decidedly limp and drooping, his face expressing annoyance and outraged dignity. Mrs. Mudge attended him to the door with an expression of anxious concern.
“I guess I'd better make tracks,” said Ben to himself, “it won't do for the old gentleman to see me here, or he may smell a rat.”
He accordingly scrambled over a stone wall and lay quietly hidden behind it till he judged it would be safe to make his appearance.