“Running?”
“Runnin’?” Dora would repeat every word. “’Course not, runnin’, but on an old forlorn bicycle that he let drop right on my cucumber vines.”
“That’s too bad,” said Babs meaning it.
“And it’s no easy job to raise cucumbers and keep them from the bugs, let alone to get a cuke off them, and then have some one ‘bust’ in and destroy them.” Dora was mad.
Barbara was on her way upstairs now, but she turned around sharply.
“Did he really destroy your cucumber vine, Dora?” she asked sharply.
“No, he didn’t. Do you think I’d be fool enough to let him? But it wasn’t his fault. I just caught him in time. And I guess I gave him a piece of my mind that he won’t forget in a hurry——”
But Barbara didn’t wait for all that. She was in her room, the little brass bolt slipped across the door, and she was now opening the letter.
Scrawled over the front was the address:
“Miss Barbara Hail” ... She laughed at that, “Hail”, she repeated. “I’ll have to show that to Cara.”