“Better not,” said Anne, who understood; “if it was Waddles, I would rather be let alone.” And when she, turning quickly, asked Waddles the familiar question, “Where is Ben? where is Mr. Wolf?” instead of cheering and trotting off toward the gate as usual, to meet his friend, he never stirred, but gave her a reproachful look, and throwing back his head, bayed dismally.
CHAPTER XIV
THE BARBED WIRE FENCE
Mr. Hugh’s promised field day with supper at Robin Hood’s Inn had, for various reasons, been postponed so often that, as Anne remarked, “first it was to have been a hazel-nut party, then a hunt for hickory and chestnuts, but now both are over, so if it doesn’t happen soon, it will have to be a skating party, which won’t be a bit of fun for the dogs.”
The delay was nobody’s fault, however, for it had taken some time to clear the old farm and woodlots of briers and thorny bushes, so that it was fit for people to explore either afoot or on horseback. Then Mr. Hugh had to go away to meet some other wise chemists who also spent their time, as Anne once said of her friend, “in mixing queer things together that were of no use to make something that was,” and tell them of a perfectly new smell he had discovered.
Next, Tommy had a bad sore throat, which, knowing they usually lasted a week, he concealed for two days, though swallowing hurt him pitifully, lest he should be housed and so miss the festivity, and if Mr. Hugh himself had not discovered the state of the case, he might have been very ill indeed.
It was toward afternoon of the second day of the discomfort that Mr. Hugh, riding slowly up the road, was stopped by Tommy, who came out of the back gate, looking anxiously behind him, as if he was afraid of being followed. Mr. Hugh halted with a half amused, half questioning expression on his face, well knowing that Tommy wanted something of him, and called, “What’s up, little chap?” by way of greeting.
Tommy clung to a leather stirrup and rested his cheek against it, for his legs were beginning to feel tired to the bone, which is one of the many bad things that a sore throat does to people, and asked in a voice that was so hoarse that it instantly attracted Mr. Hugh’s attention, “Please, if Miss Letty is hurt or sick Saturday, will you have the riding and the clay pigeon shoot and all the rest of the party?”
“No, of course not. Has anything happened to her?” asked Mr. Hugh, anxiously.