"Hi! We'll get him!" screamed Abe.
"Take him, Quib! Take him!"
Quib had started a woodchuck.
There was never a stone-heap piled up that had room in it for both a dog and a woodchuck.
Mr. Hamburger took the pipe out of his mouth, which was a thing nobody could remember ever having seen him do.
"Dose poys! Dat vootchuck! De tog is a goot von. Dey vill preak dare little necks. Joost see how dey run! But de tog is de pest runner of dem poys, egsept de vootchuck."
Mr. Hamburger did not run. Nobody had ever seen him do any such thing as that.
But he walked on across the pasture-lot, toward the deep ravine that cut through the side of the hill to the valley.
All that time poor Julius had been hoeing away desperately upon the last row of his mother's potatoes, and she had been smiling at him from the window. She was anxious he should get through, for she meant to send him to the village for a quarter of a pound of tea.
It was just as Julius reached the last hill that the baby cried, and when Mrs. Davis returned to the window to say something about the store and the kind of tea she wanted, all she could see of Julius was the hoe lying beside that last hill.