“Yes, he has,” answered Chris, with a look just as knowing, for both were well aware that as soon as their backs were turned Donald would fly to Ted's rescue from his overlong quarantine down under the apple-tree, and all the significant glances went on right under Harold's eyes, with never a suspicion on his part. Indeed, Chris and Marie-Celeste, just for the fun of it, indulged in some decidedly pointed remarks, relying (and in Harold's case with considerable risk ) upon the literalness of the average boy of sixteen to let their real meaning escape him.
“Custard and sponge-cake is not very staying,” said Ted, after Donald had told him the good news of how kindly the Hartleys had received Marie-Celeste's surprising revelations, and they were on their way to the cottage.
“Why, you haven't had any dinner, Mr. Harris?” a paralyzing recollection coming over him.
“Who promised to bring it to me, Donald?”
“Oh, Mr. Harris, it's all my fault! Martha gave it to me just before our own dinner was ready, and I set it on the feed-box a moment, while I shook down some hay for Jennie in the barn, and Chris called me, and that was the last I thought of it, and it must be there now.”
But Donald was mistaken; one of a litter of rather young setter puppies, but with the sense of scent well developed, had scaled the sides of the low feed-box, and now lay on its side by the empty plate, feeling somewhat the worse for its foraging expedition.
“But dinners are not so reviving as good news, Donald,” said Ted excusingly; and indeed, notwithstanding diminished rations, he felt wonderfully toned up both in mind and body, now that the good friends in the cottage knew just who he was and there was no longer need for any sort of duplicity.
With all Ted's faults he was as open as the day, and the part which Harry and discretion and the Doctor had mapped out for him to play had been harder than you can imagine.