“Judson Greenleaf Appleton, if you don’t come into the house right straight this minute——”
“Good night, Jud,” said Don and hurried out into the alley.
A bell was striking the hour of ten o’clock as Don reached Marlborough Street. Almost no one was abroad at that late hour, and only here and there a light gleamed soft and yellow through the heavy fog. He passed the Old South Meeting-House and a few minutes later was in Pudding Lane.
Mrs. Lancaster and Aunt Martha were just preparing to go to bed, when Don entered, out of breath and red of face.
“Well, Donald,” said his aunt, “I was thinking it was high time you returned.”
“Did you catch your skunk?” inquired Mrs. Lancaster.
Don could not help grinning. “Well, yes; I guess we did.”
“You guess!” Aunt Martha was mildly astonished. “Just what do you mean, Donald?”
“It wasn’t a real skunk that was after Jud Appleton’s chickens,” Don replied. “It was Tom Bullard.”
“Goodness!” exclaimed both ladies.