“Indeed he did!” Mrs. Horton held open the screen door for them to go in. “I haven’t missed Harriet at all.”
At the supper table Sunny remembered the accident again.
“What did the laundry-wagon boy say?” he asked his father.
“The poor chap’s in the hospital,” replied Mr. Horton soberly. “Nothing more serious than bad bruises, they say. I imagine, from the way the superintendent talked, that he’s been in pickles before this for careless driving. There were half a dozen of us there, reclaiming stuff. How many shirts was I supposed to have in that bundle, Olive?”
“Seven, and eleven collars,” said Mrs. Horton promptly.
“Well, only six had my mark on ’em,” declared Mr. Horton. “A number of bundles were entirely missing, stolen during the excitement of the crash they think, or hopelessly torn and mangled. He drove right into a big touring car, the police say.”
“I have to go over to Mrs. Baker’s,” announced Mrs. Horton when supper was finished. “You’ll go up with Sunny Boy, won’t you, Harry? He must have a hot bath.”
“It’s day yet,” protested Sunny Boy. “I don’t have to go to bed till night.”
“Well, if you’re going to get up early in the morning and help me pack stuff in the car, I think you’d better have a nice, hot bath and go to sleep as fast as you can. Of course, if you are not going to get up in the morning, and would rather stay down and wash the dishes, why that’s another matter entirely.”
Sunny Boy giggled.