“Where are your eyes, man? Here I am.”
It was the same voice, now coming apparently from behind a large tree growing a few feet from the porch, its spreading branches reaching to, and partly resting upon its roof.
“Humph!” ejaculated Mr. Riggs, hurrying down the porch steps and round to the farther side of the tree, “What are you up to, you rascal?”
“I’m no rascal, sir. What do you call me that for?” queried the voice, sounding as if the speaker was making the circuit of the tree, keeping always on the side farthest from the old man who was pursuing him.
“You were making fun o’ me, that’s why I call you a rascal, sir,” panted Riggs.
“Oh no, sir; I was only wanting to know what your conditions and portfolios were; such odd things to talk of adding to a house.”
“Odd, indeed! I reckon you’ll sing another song when you see ’em. But where under the sun are you?”
“Here, right up here.”
The voice now seemed to come from among the branches overhead.
“Well, if you ain’t the spryest rogue ever I see! I’ve a notion to climb after you and throw you down.”