"Yer side-pocket! It's one o' yer mittens!" said Taddy.
"You rascal! How you scared me!"
Seating himself in the wagon, Ducklow gently pulled up his trousers-leg to look at the bruised part.
"Got anything in your boot-leg to-day, Pa Ducklow?" asked Taddy, innocently.
"Yes,—a barked shin!—all on your account, too! Go and put that straw back, and fix the carpet; and don't ye let me hear ye speak of my boot-leg again, or I'll boot-leg ye!"
So saying, Ducklow departed.
Instead of repairing the mischief he had done in the sitting-room, Taddy devoted his time and talents to the more interesting occupation of constructing his kite-frame. He worked at that until Mr. Grantly, the minister, driving by, stopped to inquire how the folks were.
"Ain't to home: may I ride?" cried Taddy, all in a breath.
Mr. Grantly was an indulgent old gentleman, fond of children: so he said, "Jump in;" and in a minute Taddy had scrambled to a seat by his side.
And now occurred a circumstance which Ducklow had foreseen. The alarm of fire had reached Reuben's; and, although the report of its falseness followed immediately, Mrs. Ducklow's inflammable fancy was so kindled by it that she could find no comfort in prolonging her visit.