“Did you trim your boat, Bonny?” asked Roger.
“Yes,” said the boy, “with old shoes. I had a dandy pair chained to the seat, so they couldn’t be detached, unless Jimson had a hatchet along.”
“Whose boat has he got, for the land’s sake?” inquired Walter Everest. “He’s asked us all, and we’ve all pledged secrecy and good conduct, and we’ve all broken our word and decorated.”
“He’s got nobody’s boat, my friends,” said old Mr. Everest, who was shaking with silent laughter. “Don’t you know Peter Jimson better than to imagine that he would exert himself by rowing up the river this warm day?”
“Well, what are his means of locomotion?” asked Tom.
“My one-hoss shay, my son. It was waiting round the corner of the road for him.”
“I say,” ejaculated Tom, “let’s make up a party to call on them to-morrow. We can take the flowers and other trifles.”
“Hurrah,” said Bonny. “I’ll go ask Margaretta to get up a lunch.”
“Will you go to-morrow, Berty?” asked Tom, seeking her out, and speaking in a low voice.
“Where?”