"Say, Mally," began Cleo, as they struck a clearance in the otherwise tangled brush and bramble path, "do you ever see a little girl who has big long braids, and never wears a hat?"
"Sure," replied the boy. "That's Mary. Her old granddad's a nut."
"Has she a granddad?" Cleo followed. "I knew it. A girl like that always has. Where do they live?"
"Don't you know? Huh!" Mally answered scornfully. "Thought everybody knew old Doc Benson. He's a nut on flowers and growin' things."
"But where does he live? Could we go near his house?" Grace asked eagerly.
"If the old lady doesn't chase you," replied the boy, making a running jump over a huge stone, one of the many bowlder rocks that continually roll down the mountain.
"Suppose she does. She can't hurt us, can she?" pursued Cleo.
"One of the fellows said she hurt him all right," declared Mally. "She shook him 'til he lost all his marbles. Hey, Jack!" he yelled, cupping his hands to his red lips. "Here we are, over near the swamp!"
Jack evidently spied his chum at that moment, for although tall brush obstructed his view of the hunters, he answered with a "Whoo-hoo," and ran along in their direction. It took but a few moments for him to reach the party.
"I'm late," he apologized, his grin and freckles supplying real local color to the dramatic statement. "Had to dig a big fern root for Mary."