Ben turned a disapproving glance on him as he panted into the barn.
“Davie is up in the loft,” he said. “He’s picking over the nails. You go up and help him, Joe.”
“I’m sorry,” gasped Joel, flinging himself up against Ben sawing away for dear life on some hickory sticks.
“Take care—well, I sh’d think you would be, Joe, running off like that,” said Ben, not stopping his work an instant.
“O dear—dear!” Joel twisted his small fists into his eyes, whirling around so that Ben might not see him. And catching sight of this, Ben threw down the saw, thinking, “I’ll tell Deacon Blodgett I stopped a bit”—and the next thing Joel knew he had two strong hands on his shoulders and he was spun about again.
“Now, says I,” exclaimed Ben, “what’s it all about, Joel?”
So the whole story came out, and at the end Joel scampered up over the crooked stairs to the loft where little Davie, trembling first because Joel had run away and then much worse because he had come back, and something dreadful seemed to be the matter, was suddenly pounced upon where he sat sorting out a big box of nails.
“I’ve come back!” announced Joel, in the most cheerful of tones, and dropping to the floor by Davie’s side.
David gave a little scream of delight, and throwing his arms around Joel, upset the big box and away flew half of the nails, crooked and straight in the greatest confusion.
“There—now you see,” cried Joel, springing after them, and succeeding in overturning the box again, thereby spilling out the most of the remainder.