The twins watched with interest while Bobby smashed the pebble with his hammer.
“Is it valuable?” demanded Twaddles.
Bobby brushed away the dust and gathered up the fragments. It was a white pebble, and the broken bits were white, faintly veined with yellow. 58
“I shouldn’t wonder if it’s very rare,” hazarded the collector. “Anyway, I’m going to take it and keep it.”
He scooped the pieces into his bag, and then the four trotted briskly along toward home.
“Well, goodness, this is luck!” cried a hearty voice, and an automobile that had come up behind them stopped. It was the Oak Hill grocery-store car, and kind, stout Mr. Hambert, one of the clerks, was out making deliveries.
“I’m going over to Riceville,” he said, leaning out to talk to the children. “Don’t you want to go along? Room for everybody, and I’ll have you home by supper time.”
“Oh, Meg, let’s,” teased Dot, who dearly loved to go anywhere. “Mother won’t care. Come on.”
“I have to practice,” said Meg soberly. “But the rest of you can go. I’ll tell Mother so she won’t worry.”
“I’ll go with you,” declared Bobby. “It’s my turn to fix up the rabbit pen. Twaddles didn’t half do it last week.”