"There's suthin' losin' out of yer pocket!" bawled Taddy, as he was once more mounting the wagon.
Quick as lightning, Ducklow clapped his hand to his breast. In doing so, he loosed his hold of the wagon-box and fell, raking his shin badly on the wheel.
"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 yer 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. Grantley, the minister, driving by, stopped to inquire how the folks were.
"A'n't to home: may I ride?" cried Taddy, all in a breath.