“Wally has come to that state of mind in which he can't look at anything on the place without wanting to build something out of a packing case in it, or round it, or on top of it!” he said. “When the sheep come I'll have to keep you from them, or you'll be building shelves round them!”
“Why, you're nearly as bad yourself!” grinned Wally.
“I know I am, and that's why I've got to stop. I'm going to leave nice little chisels and spokeshaves and smoothing planes, and mend up the pigsty; it needs it badly, and so does the cow-shed. And then I've got to think of ploughing, and cutting that drain across the flat, and generally earning my living.”
“Don't you worry,” said David Linton. “You couldn't have done much outside in this wet weather, and at least your house is half-furnished. And we'll help you through with the other things.”
“You're all just bricks,” said Bob, his fair skin flushing—“only I begin to feel as if I were fed with a spoon. I can't always expect to have my work done for me.”
“You haven't shown much wish to leave it for anyone else,” Jim said drily. “Neither you nor Tommy strikes this district as a loafer. Just stop talking bosh, old man, and think what Tommy's going to say to her mansion.”
“Say?” queried Mr. Linton. “Why, she'll point out to us all the places where she wants shelves!”
“Shelves?” yelled the three as one man.
“Yes, certainly. There was never a woman born who had enough. Don't lose sight of your tools, Bob, for you'll go on putting up shelves as long as you've an inch of wall to put them on. Come along, boys, and we'll go home.”