“Should ought to,” laughed Rodney. “Oh, well, I’ll have to see it through, I guess. After I’ve been out a few days they’ll be glad to let me alone. Only that’s going to get fellows sort of down on me. They’ll say ‘Ginger Merrill’s brother is an awful duffer. He can’t even hold the ball!’”
“But I don’t believe you’re nearly as bad as you try to make out,” said Matty, smiling. “How could you be? Ginger Merrill’s brother——”
“There you go! I wish they’d forget I’m Ginger Merrill’s brother. You, too. I’m going home.”
“Well, it was very nice of you to play croquet with us, wasn’t it, May?”
“It was,” agreed May promptly and calmly.
“And to-morrow, if mama will allow us to, we’ll go over to the field and watch you practice.” And Matty smiled encouragingly.
“Rather you didn’t,” replied Rodney gloomily. “So long.”
He squirmed through a thin place in the hedge that separated the Binner’s garden from Mrs. Westcott’s yard, and entered the cottage. Mrs. Westcott, as luck would have it, was seated in her private parlor at the left of the door, and at sight of Rodney hurried into the hall.
“My dear, dear boy!” she exclaimed rapturously. “I’ve just heard the news!”
“What news, ma’am?” asked Rodney unsuspiciously.