LITMIR.BIZ

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each find a good club. That dog, you know," said Bobby.

      "Sure. And if we meet up with Ap, I'll be likely to use it on him, too!" growled Fred, angrily.

      Bobby decided that it was useless to try to pacify his chum at the moment. It seemed to relieve Fred to threaten the absent Ap Plunkit, and it did that individual no bodily harm!

      So the boys found stout clubs and started up the bank of the creek. Fred was feeling so badly that he did not pick more of the "summer sweetnin's" when they came to the apple tree.

      They crawled through the hole in the boundary fence of the Plunkit Farm and kept on up the creek-side. First they crossed the pasture, then they climbed a tight fence and entered a big cornfield. The corn was taller than their heads and there were acres and acres of it. It was planted right along the edge of the creek bank, and they had to walk between the rows.

      "If old Plunkit sees us in his corn, he'll be mad," said Fred, at last.

      "This is the nearest way to the house, and we've got to try and get your clothes," said Bobby, firmly.

      After that, he took the lead. The nearer they approached the farmhouse, the more Fred lagged. But suddenly, in the midst of the long cornfield, Master Martin uttered a cry.

      "Look there, Bob!"

      "What's the matter with you? I thought it was the dog."

      "No, sir! See yonder, will you?"

      "Nothing but a scarecrow," said Bobby.

      "Yes. But it has clothes on it. I'm going to take them. I'm not going up to that house without anything more on me than what I've got."

      Bobby began to chuckle at that. It seemed too funny for anything to rob a scarecrow. But Fred was pushing his way through the corn toward the absurd figure.

      Suddenly Fred uttered another yell – this time his famous warwhoop:

      "Scubbity-yow! I got him!"

      "You got who?" demanded Bobby, hurrying after his chum.

      "This is some o' that Ap Plunkit's doings – the mean thing! Look here!" and he snatched the cap off the scarecrow's head of straw.

      "Why – that looks like your cap, Fred," gasped Bobby.

      "And it is, too."

      "That – that's just the stripe of your shirt!"

      "And it is my shirt. And it's my pants, and all!" cried Fred. "I'll get square with Ap Plunkit yet – you see if I don't. There's the old ragged things this scarecrow wore, on the ground. And he's dressed it in my things. Oh, you wait till I catch him!"

      Meanwhile Fred was hastily tearing off the garments that certainly were his own. They were all here. Bobby kept away from him, and laughed silently to himself. It was really too, too funny; but he did not want to make Fred angry with him.

      "Now I guess we'd better not go to the farmhouse – had we?" demanded Bobby.

      "Let's go home," grunted Fred, very sour. "It's almost sundown."

      "All right," agreed his chum.

      "He tore my shirt, too. And we might never have found these clothes. I'm going to get square," Fred kept muttering, as they struck right down between the corn rows toward the distant roadside fence.

      Just as they climbed over the rails to leap into the road they were hailed by a voice that said:

      "Hey there! what you doin' in that cornfield?"

      There was the Plunkit hopeful – otherwise Applethwaite, the white-headed boy. He sat on the top rail near by and grinned at the two boys from town.

      "There you are – you mean thing!" cried Fred Martin, and before Bobby could stop him, he rushed at the bigger fellow.

      He was so quick – or Ap was so slow – that Fred seized the latter by the ankles before he could get down from his perch.

      "Git away! I'll fix you!" shouted the farm boy.

      He kicked out, lost his balance, and Fred let him go. Ap fell backward off the fence into the cornfield, and landed on his head and shoulders.

      He set up a terrific howl, even before he scrambled to his feet. By his actions he did not seem to be so badly hurt. He searched around for a stone, found it, and threw it with all his force at Fred Martin. Fortunately he missed the town boy.

      Immediately Fred grabbed up a stone himself and poised it to fling at his enemy. Bobby threw himself upon his chum and seized his raised arm.

      "Now you stop that, Fred!" he commanded.

      "Why shouldn't I hit him? He flung one at me," declared the angry boy.

      "I know. But he didn't hit you. And you might hit him and do him harm. Suppose you put his eye out – or something? Come on home, Fred – don't be a chump."

      "Aw – well," growled Fred, and threw the stone away.

      "You know you are always getting into a muss," urged Bobby, hurrying his chum along the road toward town. "What'll you do when you go to Rockledge – "

      "You got to go with me, Bob," declared Fred, grinning.

      "Oh! I wish they'd let me," murmured his friend.

      But as far as he could see then, no circumstances could arise that would make such a wished for event possible.

      CHAPTER VI

      A FISH FRY AND A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT

      They got home at early supper time, fish and all. But one look into the kitchen assured Bobby that it was useless to expect Meena to pan their catch for them.

      The "rabbit ears" stuck up on top of her head at a more uncompromising angle than ever. Mr. and Mrs. Blake had not returned from town. At a late hour Michael Mulcahey had come back with the carriage and announced that his mistress would stay in town for dinner with Mr. Blake and they were to be met at the 10:10 train.

      Michael had just finished cleaning the carriage and now sat with his pipe beside the stable door. He was a long-lipped Irishman, with kindly, twinkling eyes, and "ould counthry" whiskers that met under his chin, giving his cleanly shaven, wind-bitten face the look of peering out through a frame of hair.

      "'Tis a nice string of fish ye have, byes," he said.

      "And I s'pose we got to give them to the cats," complained Fred. "They won't cook 'em at my house, and Meena's got the toothache."

      Michael grinned broadly, puffing slowly at his pipe. "Clane the fish, byes. There's a pan jest inside the dure. Get water from the hydrant. Have ye shar-r-rp knives?"

      "Oh, yes, Michael!" cried Bobby.

      "Scale thim fish, then. I'll start a fire in my stove. An' I've a pan. Belike Meena, the girl, will give ye a bit of fat salt por-r-rk and some bread. Tell her she naden't bother with supper. We'll make it ourselves – in what th' fancy folks calls 'ally-frisco' – though why so, I dun-no," added Michael.

      He knocked the dottle out of his pipe and washed his hands. The boys, meanwhile, were cleaning the little fish rapidly, and whispering together. They were delighted with the coachman's suggestion. It was just what they had been hoping for. Fred even forgot his "grouch" against Applethwaite Plunkit.

      Bobby ventured to the kitchen door. Meena was just untying the red bandage, but the moment she caught sight of him she hesitated. She may have felt another slight twinge of "face ache."

      "Vat you vant?" she demanded.

      Bobby told her what they were going to do. Michael had his own plates, and knives and forks. He had "bached it" a good many years before he came to work for Bobby's father. Meena saw a long, quiet evening ahead of her.

      "Vell," she said, ungraciously enough, for it was not her way to acknowledge her blessings – not in public, at least. "Vell, I give you the pork and bread. But that Michael ban spoil you boys. I vouldn't efer marry him."

      "What did she say?" asked the coachman when Bobby returned to the

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