“You don’t say!” ejaculated the old lady, sheering off in some alarm.
“You needn’t be afraid,” said Tom gravely. “I haven’t had an attack for a week.”
This only alarmed Mrs. Peabody the more, and with a hasty good-night she hurried on her way, considerably bewildered by her interview.
“She’s a prying old lady, and deserves to be mystified,” said Tom to himself. “I’ll bet a hat she’ll come round to old Middleton’s to-morrow to find out all about me. Halloo! there are two chaps playing ball. I guess I’ll join in.”
The boys were James Davenport and his cousin, Edwin Barker, and they were playing in a field belonging to Lawyer Davenport, the father of the former. The boys were about Tom’s age, and belonged to the upper crust of Plympton society. They regarded themselves as socially superior to the other village boys, and had a habit of playing together, and so avoiding the possible contamination of association with the village plebeians. Of course Tom didn’t know this, and if he had it would have made very little difference to him. He jumped over the wall which separated the road from the field, and called out in an easy way.
“Halloo, boys, just pitch the ball this way, will you?”
“Who are you?” demanded James Davenport haughtily.
“I haven’t got my visiting-cards with me, but I can handle a ball, name or no name.”
“This field is private property,” said James loftily.
“Yes, private property,” chimed in his cousin.