Part 16 (2/2)

”Huh!” jeered that youth, ”here comes the boy that's tied to a girl's ap.r.o.n-strings! Howdy, Miss Kitty.”

Christopher was ready to cry with mortification, but his pride held him steady.

”They're going to have a tea-party at the author-lady's, and they're waitin' for me,” he announced grandly. ”You know in the city we fellows have to be polite to the ladies.”

”We're polite to the ladies too,” answered Billy sullenly. It always made him angry when Christopher made remarks which suggested that city ways were superior to those of the country.

”Oh, I dare say you are,” admitted Christopher graciously, ”but it's different in the city, you know. Say, are you going home? Let's walk back together. Wait till I get the mail and I'll treat to sour b.a.l.l.s.”

In addition to his light duties as postmaster of the little village, Mr.

Carpenter sold knitting worsted and sweeties kept in gla.s.s jars.

Christopher, with the manner of a millionaire, pulled the last five-cent piece of his week's ”'lowance” out of his pocket, handed it over the counter and received in return ten large, semi-transparent yellow sugar b.a.l.l.s, striped in red, and done up in a paper bag.

”Here's another of those pesky special delivery letters for the author-lady at Mr. Parsons', Bill,” said Mr. Carpenter as he handed out a thick budget; ”you'd better take it along with the others. Now run along, both of you, for I'm busy.”

”The author-lady must be awful rich, by the way she spends money on postage stamps,” observed Billy, as the boys strolled along the village street, each with one of the big red and yellow b.a.l.l.s of sweet stuff tucked comfortably in his cheek. ”She buys dad out sometimes. And she gets stacks and stacks of letters. I wonder what they're all about?”

He surveyed the bundle he carried with a good deal of curiosity.

”Oh, people who write books always get lots of letters; from magazine editors, asking for stories and all that sort of thing,” replied Christopher airily. ”And they pay big prices for stories, so of course Mrs. Hartwell-Jones is rich. Say, Letty was telling us a story the other day-it was an awfully hot day and there wasn't anything else to do so I lay on the gra.s.s and couldn't help hearing what the girls were talking about-well, Letty told this story that she had read once years before at school and what do you suppose? Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had written it. She hollered down to us about it out of her bedroom window when Letty'd got through. Funny, wasn't it? And she said she'd write another story some time, just for the girls. They were immensely tickled.”

”You have pretty good times, don't you?” said Billy enviously. ”I guess you won't care to play with us boys much.”

”Oh, yes, I do,” exclaimed Christopher hastily. ”I've got a fine scheme that I wanted to talk to you about to-day. Let's you and Perk and me go off on a lark some time together. We'll go into the woods.

Grandmother'll give us a lunch and we'll build a fire to cook potatoes.

Maybe we can catch some fish to fry.”

”Oh, say, that would be great!” exclaimed Billy enthusiastically. ”Let's go to-morrow!”

”Well, I don't know about to-morrow. I was going to ask grandfather to let us have a horse and wagon, and we'll have to wait till one can be spared from the farm work. But we'll go soon.”

”Can you swim?” asked Billy suddenly.

”No, not exactly,” confessed Christopher reluctantly. ”I had some lessons at a swimming school in town, but somehow I couldn't seem to get just the hang of it by myself.”

”Oh, well, if you've got a start Perk an' I'll soon teach you,” Billy promised patronizingly. ”I know of a bully swimming hole, safe as anything.”

”I don't know whether grandfather would let me go in swimming,” said Christopher slowly, feeling that the expedition was growing more serious than he had intended. Yet he found it unbearable to have Billy think him lacking in any manly sport. ”But if it's a perfectly safe place I guess he'll say--”

”Oh, pshaw, what do you want to tell him for? I guess your grandfather doesn't want you to be a sissy-boy, does he?”

”Of course not!” answered Christopher indignantly.

”Well, then, he must want you to learn to swim. If you should just go home some fine afternoon and say, 'Gran'pa, I know how to swim,' why, he'd be as pleased as-as a pup.”

”But I do know how-almost-already,” boasted Christopher.

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