“Bryce Cardigan,” she commanded sternly, “come down here this instant.”
“I'm not a pretty sight, Shirley. Better let me go about my business.”
She stamped her foot. “Come here!”
“Well, since you insist,” he replied, and he slid down the bank.
“How did you get up there—and what do you mean by hiding there spying on me, you—you—oh, YOU!”
“Cuss a little, if it will help any,” he suggested. “I had to get out of your way—out of your sight—and up there was the best place. I was on the roof of the caboose when it toppled over, so all I had to do was step ashore and sit down.”
“Then why didn't you stay there?” she demanded furiously.
“You wouldn't let me,” he answered demurely. “And when I saw you weeping because I was supposed to be with the angels, I couldn't help coughing to let you know I was still hanging around, ornery as a book-agent.”
“How did you ruin your face, Mr. Cardigan?”
“Tried to take a cast of the front end of the caboose in my classic countenance—that's all.”