“Did too,” retorted Twaddles, already scrambling 59 into the seat beside Mr. Hambert. “Guess I keep those rabbits as good as you do, Bobby. You’re always fussing.”
Mr. Hambert held out a hand to Dot and pulled her into place beside him.
“All right,” he nodded kindly to Meg and Bobby. “You won’t be sorry if you do the work first and play afterward. Tell your mother I’ll see these youngsters safe home by half-past five.”
“Do you suppose Dot looked clean enough to go to Riceville?” worried Meg, after the fashion of older sisters, as the grocery car shot up the road and took the turn to the right. “Like as not they’ll go to the hotel and all the boarders will see her.”
“She’s all right,” said Bobby carelessly, “Here’s the spring lot, Meg. See how muddy the path is.”
The children had been following a narrow path that ran through the grass at the side of the road and which would presently meet the concrete walk that marked the beginning of the town. The “spring lot” was a marshy piece of land that was full of springs which fed and kept 60 puddles of mud moist through the dryest season. To-day, although everywhere else the dust was fine and white, the path along the spring lot was oozy and soft.
“Who’s coming?” said Meg, looking up the road suddenly. “Look, Bobby, isn’t that Tim Roon?”
Bobby glanced up from his favorite occupation of cracking stones.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Wonder where he’s going?”
His hands in his pockets, his cap on the back of his head, Tim Roon came toward them, whistling loudly. When he was near enough to see the two children, he stopped.