“Servin’ papers on smallpox cases hain’t in my line, Sonny,” says he quietly.
“Smallpox, your granny!... I’m going in and ’phone, if you don’t.”
“Help yourself,” drawled the officer, giving the kid the same kind of a look that Mrs. Doane had.
Fatty had talked brave. But he backed down now. For it suddenly percolated into his thick skull, I guess, that the woman might be telling the truth, after all. Anyway, he didn’t go inside to use the telephone.
The sheriff had gone back to the buggy, as though the morning’s work was over so far as he was concerned. This gave us the very chance we were looking for. But as I grabbed the pail of water, to heave it out of the window in good aim, Poppy stopped me.
“Look, Jerry!”
He was pointing to the eaves over our heads. And what do you know if there wasn’t a hornets’ nest up there, under the roof edge, as big as a tub. It had more holes in it than Red Meyers has freckles, and there was a pa and ma hornet and nine frisky little hornets with brand new stingers and sassy tempers for every hole. Boy, were we ever in luck!
Down below, fatty was spreading around some more of his mean gab. His father would see about this and his father would see about that. Quarantine sign or no quarantine sign, his father would blub-blub-blub-blub!
Poppy slid the stick out of the bottom part of the window shade.
“Get ready, Jerry. When I count ‘three,’ dump your bucket. And at the same time I’ll poke the nest loose.”