“Who did that?” demanded the voice—a voice full of anger. “Who threw that ball? Oh! Oh! Of all things! I demand to know who did it?”
Joe and Tom were silent—looking blankly one at the other. Up over the fence rose the mild and bewhiskered face of Mr. Peterkin.
“Boys,” asked the aged man gently. “Did anything happen? It sounds like it to me.”
“I—I threw the ball over the fence,” admitted Joe.
“Hum! Then I’m afraid something did happen,” went on Mr. Peterkin still more gently. “Yes, I’m sure of it,” he added as the sound of some one coming down the garden path could be heard. “Here comes Alvirah. Something has happened. Do—do you want to run?” he asked, for rumor had it that Mrs. Peterkin was possessed of no gentle temper and Mr. Peterkin—well, he was a very mild-mannered man, every one knew that. “Do you want to run?” he asked again.
“No,” said Tom.
“Of course not,” added Joe. “If we broke a window we’ll pay for it—I’ll pay for it,” he corrected himself, for he had thrown the ball.
Mrs. Peterkin advanced to where her husband was working in the garden. The boys could not see the lady but they could hear her.
“You didn’t throw that ball, did you, Ebenezer?” she asked. “If you did—at your age—cutting up such foolish tricks as playing baseball—I—I’ll——”