"Guess I'll have to look out now," she said. "He'll give it to me, if he catches me."
Henry Burns's face wore an expression of mingled perplexity and embarrassment. Then, as one resolved to see the thing through, he replied, "Come on, I'll get you home all right."
CHAPTER XI
COL. WITHAM GETS THE MILL
It was the evening before the glorious Fourth of July, and Tim Reardon was dragging an iron cannon along the street, by a small rope. It was a curious, clumsy piece of iron-mongery, about a foot and a half long, with a heavily moulded barrel mounted on a block of wood that ran on four wheels; a product of the local machine shop, designed for the purpose of being indestructible rather than for show.
Tim Reardon, smudgy-faced, but wearing an expression of deep satisfaction, paused for a moment before a gate where stood a boy somewhat younger than himself, who eyed the cannon admiringly.
"Hello, Willie," said Tim. "Comin' out, ain't yer?"
The boy shook his head, disconsolately.
"What's the matter?"