“O, pshaw!” exclaimed Harry.
“I should like to know if that’s all you’ve got to say?” said Kate in a decidedly irritated tone.
“I beg your pardon; I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to. But don’t you suppose now that if Frank had stayed in the lot over yonder that morning, and God—” Harry suddenly stooped, grew red in the face, stooped and picked up a stone, which he kept tossing in his left hand as they went along; and he waited for Kate to speak, which she did presently, saying,
“Never mind the rest; you can tell me some other time. Here we are, close to your cornfield.”
“I should like to know why you call it mine,” said Harry; and then followed the story of Frank’s desire to earn money for himself, and the opportunity given to him by his father, and ingloriously lost by his runaway propensity, gratified once too often. Kate told the story with shining eyes, and was particularly careful to impress upon Harry’s mind the beautiful manner in which her brother had acted ever since.
Harry and Kate were standing on the very edge of the field, and Harry was just saying, “But, Kate, I cannot take it; you know that I can’t. I should not enjoy a thing about it,” when a thundering slap struck upon Harry’s shoulder, and a big, gleesome boy’s voice shouted close to his ear,
“Well, I say, old fellow, how do you like the looks? Ain’t much like Western corn now, is it?”
Frank had been advancing cautiously from the rear, intending to take Kate and Harry by surprise. Harry was too much hurt by the blow (for Frank had forgotten his condition) to answer for a minute or two. In fact he grew so pale that Kate was frightened, and called Frank “a great rough, cruel fellow, to slap poor Harry so.”
“I declare, I forgot your arm and everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” explained Frank, and after a few more sharp twinges in the broken bones, Harry said,
“It is all over and no harm done.”