Part 3 (2/2)
Or don't you know any better?”
”Know any better'n _what_?” demanded the bone-weary Sammy, in no mood to endure scolding in any case. ”Ain't I done it all right? I bet you can't find a weed in that whole bed, so now.”
”Great grief, kid!” gasped the older boy, seeing that Sammy was quite in earnest, ”I don't believe you've left anything _but_ weeds in those rows. It--it's a knock-out!”
”Aw--I never,” gulped Sammy. ”I guess I know beets.”
”Huh! It looks as though you don't even know _beans_,” chortled Neale, unable to keep his gravity. ”What a mess! Mrs. McCall will be as sore as she can be.”
”I don't care!” cried the tired boy wildly. ”I saved just what Aggie told me to, and threw away everything else. And see how the rows are.”
”Why, Sammy, those aren't where the rows of beets were at all. See!
_These_ are beets. _Those_ are weeds. Oh, great grief!” and the older boy went off into another gale of laughter.
”I--I do-o-on't care,” wailed Sammy. ”I did just what Aggie told me to.
And I want my half dollar.”
”You want to be paid for wasting all Mrs. McCall's beets?”
”I don't care, I earned it.”
Neale could not deny the statement. As far as the work went, Sammy certainly had spent time and labor on the unfortunate task.
”Wait a minute,” said Neale, as Sammy started away in anger. ”Maybe all those beet plants you pulled up aren't wilted. We can save some of them.
Beets grow very well when they are transplanted--especially if the ground is wet enough and the sun isn't too hot. It looks like rain for to-night, anyway.”
”Aw--I--”
”Come on! We'll get some water and stick out what we can save. I'll help you and the girls needn't know you were such a dummy.”
”Dummy, yourself!” snarled the tired and over-wrought boy. ”I'll never weed another beet again--no, I won't!”
Sammy made a bee-line out of the garden and over the fence into Willow Street, leaving Neale fairly shaking with laughter, yet fully realizing how dreadfully cut-up Sammy must feel.
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune seem much greater to the mind of a youngster like Sammy Pinkney than to an adult person. The ridicule which he knew he must suffer because of his mistake about the beet bed, seemed something that he really could not bear. Besides, he had worked all the afternoon for nothing (as he presumed) and only the satisfaction of having earned fifty cents would have counteracted the ache in his muscles.
Harried by his disappointment, Sammy was met by his mother in a stern mood, her first question being:
”Where have you been wasting your time ever since dinner, Sammy Pinkney?
I never did see such a lazy boy!”
It was true that he had wasted his time. But his sore muscles cried out against the charge that he was lazy.
He could not explain, however, without revealing his shame. To be ridiculed was the greatest punishment Sammy Pinkney knew.
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