“I don’t want to think of it,” growled the real boy. “I know what we Boy Scouts could do with this outfit.”
“Poor Ben,” and Grace threw an arm around the brown-haired little fellow. “Never mind. I’m coming home and I’ll make you as much fudge as every boy in your crowd will want to eat—at one sitting,” she qualified.
He was finally induced to sample the Johnny-cake, but when he left there was a defiance in his manner, akin to recklessness.
“I don’t care, anyhow,” he prevaricated. “We’re going to camp up on the hills next week,” he flung back, jerking his wheel up in the air to start, as if it had been a pony with its bit too tight.
“A busy day approach—eth,” warned Corene. “We must have our trial swim this morning, you know.”
“Yes, and we have to go for the mail. It’s my turn and yours, Weasy,” said Cleo.
“And I’ve got to go around to all the cottages and give warning we are going to break camp, I suppose,” said Julia. “I know the mothers will be glad to get the news, although they may not admit it.”
“And I’m going to take a run up to Peg’s and see if she is all right,” declared Corene. “Maybe now that she won’t go over the hills looking for that lost claim, she may take time to have a civilized swim with us.”
“She may; but then again she may not,” interposed Cleo. “Don’t you remember she said there was something she was disappointed about not being finished?”
“Yes; we couldn’t get all the story, there were so many interruptions,” said Corene. “But wasn’t she a wonderful girl to work so hard to follow out her father’s ambitions?”