“And now our afternoon is gone, and we have not read a word,” sighed little Margery. “I never met two such chatterboxes as you and Polly.”
“And to hear us talk is a liberal education,” retorted Polly.
“Exactly,” said Philip, dryly, “Come, I’ll take the books and shawls. It’s nearly five o’clock, and we shall hear Hop Yet blowing his lusty dinner-horn presently.”
“Why didn’t you go off shooting with the others?” asked Margery.
“Stayed at home so they’d get a chance to shoot.”
“Why, do you mean you always scare the game away?” inquired Polly, artlessly.
“No; I mean that I always do all the shooting, and the others get discouraged.”
“Clasp hands over the bloody chasm,” said Bell, “and let us smoke the pipe of peace at dinner.”
Philip and Bell came through the trees, and, as they neared the camp, saw Aunt Truth sitting at the door of Tent Chatter, looking the very picture of comfort, as she drew her darning-needle in and out of an unseemly rent in one of Dicky’s stockings. Margery and Polly came up just behind, and dropped into her lap some beautiful branches of wild azalea.
“Did you have a pleasant walk, dears?” she asked.