Part 16 (2/2)
”That's pretty fair,” he admitted; ”but you must clean 'em off good.
Chuck 'em in there,” he added as he tossed the potato into a bushel basket.
”How many you got to do?” inquired Biscuit, plunging briskly into his task.
”Six bushels,” replied Sube, with antic.i.p.ation of the day when he would be called upon to sprout potatoes on his own account. ”And when the basket's full dump it over there in the corner. As soon as you get the six bushels done you come out and help Stucky with the beets. It's awful hot out there in the sun.” And Sube withdrew, leaving Biscuit in sole possession of the musty cellar.
On returning to the lawn Sube found Gizzard busy with the clippers.
”What! Got her all cut!” he cried delightedly.
”You bet y'u!” replied Gizzard. ”And I'm pretty near through with the clippin', too.”
”Well, I'll put the ol' mower away and stick up the net. Chuck the clippers in the barn as you go by. Dad always gets sore if we don't put the tools away.”
He had just finished stretching the net when Stucky walked out on the court.
”You're not done already!” beamed Sube.
”You _know_ it!” was Stucky's self-important reply.
”What did you do with the greens?”
”Give 'em to Annie.”
”Stucky, you're a brick church!”
”Where's Biscuit?” asked Gizzard who at that moment came panting up.
”Down cellar sproutin' p'tates,” replied Sube. ”But I had him leave the new ball outside. I was afraid he'd get it dirty.”
”Wisht he'd hurry up,” said Stucky. ”We wanta get to playin'. Don't you s'pose he's done?”
”Oh, I wouldn't want to bother him right in the middle of a bushel,”
Sube remonstrated. ”Let's have a little three-hander while we're waitin'. I'll stand the two of you.”
The little three-hander had become almost a set, and, strange to say, Biscuit had been entirely forgotten when his mother, accompanied by a slight, sallow gentleman in a black suit, drew up by the side of the street in a surrey from the livery.
”Boys!” she called.
The game stopped. There was momentary confusion among the players. Sube slipped the new ball into his pocket and carelessly kicked his sweater over a pair of shoes and stockings lying beside the court, before he appeared to be able to locate the speaker. When at last his eyes encountered Mrs. Westfall's, he s.n.a.t.c.hed off his cap with elaborate gusto and sang out politely:
”Good morning, M's Westfall! Did you call us?”
”Yes,” she replied sharply. ”Where's Karl?”
”Ma'am?”
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