“Well, we found something, didn’t we?” defended Sherm.
“I should say we found out how deep the snow was.”
“Yes, and the sidehill made Jane sure we were near the creek, and then she saw the trees and—”
“Yes, and then she found it wasn’t the creek at all, but the Wattles’ place.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Frank, “you didn’t get over to black Charlie’s? Why, that was three miles out of your road!”
“Yes, Frank, and you ought to have seen him. He was scared to death when we came pounding on his door in the middle of the night.” Chicken Little giggled at the recollection.
337“And there was a trundle bed full of pickanninies and they kept popping their heads up. They were so ridiculous–with their little pigtails sticking up all over their heads, and their bead eyes.”
“Well, old Charlie warmed us up all right and started us back on the road again,” said John Hardy gratefully.
“And there’s another thing sure,” said Marian, interrupting this flow of reminiscence, “you can’t go back to town to-night, and you must be tired to death, all of you. Mother Morton, if you will take the girls over with you, Frank and I will make some pallets by the fire for these boys, and let them get some sleep.”