“Mercy!” snickered Tom.
“You’ll be howling for it soon. Say, does that first-aid-to-the-injured book tell you what to do for a good hard bump on the nose?”
The crimson mounted as far as Tommy’s eyes.
“Eh?” he stammered.
“When I catch you alone, Mr. Clifton, volume two may come in handy. See here, Cran Beaumont, I’ll tell you right now, I won’t stay long in this old farmhouse.”
Within a few minutes the boys had discovered that there wasn’t a bed in any of the rooms, the only thing suggestive of comfortable repose being a mattress placed on the floor of the largest. What Willie said during the next few minutes resulted in such a roar of voices that Bob hastily stepped to the door and closed it. Cranny did most of the laughing; Tom was the angriest.
But eventually it all came to an end. Willie had possession of the mattress, and Bob agreed to make a desperate effort to secure a pillow for him. Tim Lovell and Cranny decided to share the room, and had the privilege of taking any part of the floor they chose.
“Now, fellows, let’s get to work,” cried Bob Somers, briskly; “we’ll soon have these rooms looking several years younger.”
With the exception of Dave and Willie, the crowd set vigorously to work. They broomed, scrubbed and dusted, until the long unoccupied rooms began to assume a positively cheerful appearance. Windows were thrown open, admitting the pure, fresh air that swept for miles over the prairie. By noon they surveyed their work with much satisfaction. Prints had been tacked on the walls; even some of Dave Brandon’s oil sketches were hung up for critical eyes to examine.
“Humph!” exclaimed Willie, intently gazing at a sunset. “Ever sell any?”