Bobby had been especially unruly all week. There was nothing he had not thought of doing in the way of mischief, and thinking mischief was almost identical with doing mischief where Bobby Carter was concerned. The deed was no sooner conceived than accomplished and the other children, who were inclined to be naughty, thought up extra things for him to do.
Putting a piece of rubber on the stove was certainly not Bobby’s idea, nor slipping chestnut burrs in the desk-seats while the girls were not looking, causing howls of anguish when they inadvertently sat down on the same. Bobby manfully took the blame for all of these things, however, confidently certain that no punishment worth speaking of would be meted out to him.
“He is honest, at least,” sighed Douglas, “and owns up every time.”
Friday afternoon on the way home she felt that maybe Nan’s name for their place was a good one. She was almost a dead warrior if not quite one.
“Oh, for a Valkyrie to bear me to Valhalla!”
Bobby was trudging along by her side looking as though butter would not melt in his mouth. What a sturdy little fellow he was growing to be! Douglas looked down on his jaunty, erect figure.
“Bobby, you are getting right fat.”
Bobby slapped his pockets. “That ain’t fat, that’s blame pay!”
“Blame pay! What on earth?”
“Oh, them is the gif’s I gits fer saying I done it ev’y time you asks us to hol’ up our han’s who done it.”