It proved to be Philip under the seat, and he rolled his eyes beseechingly at Sam as Bobby pulled him out by his collar.

“Which one of you kids hid him under the seat?” demanded Sam sternly.

“I didn’t, honestly, Sam,” said Meg.

Bobby and the twins denied that they had had anything to do with Philip and his appearance.

“I did see him under the seat asleep this morning when we were out in the garage,” admitted Twaddles. “I guess he didn’t wake up till now.”

“Well, he’ll have to walk back with you, that’s all,” grumbled Sam. “Your father doesn’t want a dog around when he’s thinking about business. What is it, Bobby?”

“There’s a queer looking stone,” said Bobby, who had been pulling at Sam’s sleeve to attract his attention. “See it down there? Slow up, 55 and you will. There! Let me get out and get it for my collection?”

Sam slowed down the car, and looked with interest at the spot to which Bobby pointed. Then he laughed.

“That’s a lump of coal,” he announced. “Fell off a heavy load, I guess, on its way to the foundry. Collecting stones, are you, Bobby?”

“Not exactly,” said Bobby. “You see I heard about a boy who went around cracking pebbles and stones and sometimes he found very valuable ones. Maybe I will, too. Anyway I like to crack ’em.”

“I see,” said Sam, looking at his watch. “Well, we’ll have to hustle a little to make it by two o’clock. Hold your hats, youngsters.”

Sam delighted to let the car out occasionally, and for the next few minutes they whirled steadily through a cloud of dust. Then the iron gates of the foundry, of which Father Blossom was the owner and where he had his office, loomed up ahead of them, and Sam put on the brakes.

“Coming right away,” called Father Blossom, as the car rolled past the office window, where 56 he was working at a roll-top desk, and stopped before the door.

In just a moment he came out, buckling his brief case as he came down the steps.

“They wanted to come,” said Sam apologetically, indicating his passengers. “I told ’em they’d have to walk home, because you were going over to Clayton.”

“Yes, can’t have you along this trip,” declared Father Blossom regretfully. “Where are you going, Sam?”

Sam was driving further into the foundry yard. He turned with a half-sheepish grin to answer his employer.

“Going to drive in around the pump and make a turn,” he said. “Meg doesn’t like to be in the car when it’s backing, so I thought I wouldn’t worry her.”

So Sam drove carefully around the piles of iron and scraps and, making a wide detour at the pump, drove out of the yard again. Meg smiled her thanks. She wished she didn’t feel that a car was likely to tip over when it was 57 backed, but she was sure she couldn’t help that feeling.

“Now I s’pose we’ll have to get out,” murmured Bobby, as they came to the sign-post with a finger pointing to “Oak Hill, 2 miles,” in one direction, and another finger reading, “Clayton, 8 miles,” pointing another way.

“Yes, and don’t loiter,” directed Father Blossom. “Go straight home and tell Mother if I can I’ll be back for supper, but not to wait for me.”

Philip was glad to be out of the car, and he frisked ahead, barking and trying to tempt some one to run a race with him.

“This looks valuable,” said Bobby, picking up a pebble he found at one side of the road. “Wait a minute, Meg, till I see.”

The twins watched with interest while Bobby smashed the pebble with his hammer.

“Is it valuable?” demanded Twaddles.

Bobby brushed away the dust and gathered up the fragments. It was a white pebble, and the broken bits were white, faintly veined with yellow. 58

“I shouldn’t wonder if it’s very rare,” hazarded the collector. “Anyway, I’m going to take it and keep it.”

He scooped the pieces into his bag, and then the four trotted briskly along toward home.

“Well, goodness, this is luck!” cried a hearty voice, and an automobile that had come up behind them stopped. It was the Oak Hill grocery-store car, and kind, stout Mr. Hambert, one of the clerks, was out making deliveries.

“I’m going over to Riceville,” he said, leaning out to talk to the children. “Don’t you want to go along? Room for everybody, and I’ll have you home by supper time.”

“Oh, Meg, let’s,” teased Dot, who dearly loved to go anywhere. “Mother won’t care. Come on.”

“I have to practice,” said Meg soberly. “But the rest of you can go. I’ll tell Mother so she won’t worry.”

“I’ll go with you,” declared Bobby. “It’s my turn to fix up the rabbit pen. Twaddles didn’t half do it last week.”

“Did too,” retorted Twaddles, already scrambling 59 into the seat beside Mr. Hambert. “Guess I keep those rabbits as good as you do, Bobby. You’re always fussing.”

Mr. Hambert held out a hand to Dot and pulled her into place beside him.

“All right,” he nodded kindly to Meg and Bobby. “You won’t be sorry if you do the work first and play afterward. Tell your mother I’ll see these youngsters safe home by half-past five.”

“Do you suppose Dot looked clean enough to go to Riceville?” worried Meg, after the fashion of older sisters, as the grocery car shot up the road and took the turn to the right. “Like as not they’ll go to the hotel and all the boarders will see her.”

“She’s all right,” said Bobby carelessly, “Here’s the spring lot, Meg. See how muddy the path is.”

The children had been following a narrow path that ran through the grass at the side of the road and which would presently meet the concrete walk that marked the beginning of the town. The “spring lot” was a marshy piece of land that was full of springs which fed and kept 60 puddles of mud moist through the dryest season. To-day, although everywhere else the dust was fine and white, the path along the spring lot was oozy and soft.

“Who’s coming?” said Meg, looking up the road suddenly. “Look, Bobby, isn’t that Tim Roon?”

Bobby glanced up from his favorite occupation of cracking stones.

“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Wonder where he’s going?”

His hands in his pockets, his cap on the back of his head, Tim Roon came toward them, whistling loudly. When he was near enough to see the two children, he stopped.

“Hello, smarties!” was his greeting. “How’s teacher’s pet?”

“I’m not teacher’s pet,” retorted Bobby indignantly.

“Nobody said you were,” answered Tim Roon. “Can’t a person speak to your sister, without you taking it all on yourself?”

Bobby flushed angrily.

“You needn’t speak to my sister unless you 61 can talk right,” he said rapidly. “Come on, Meg, call Philip, and we’ll go.”

The dog was hunting in the marsh and came bounding out at Meg’s first call.

“Just a mutt.” Tim Roon summed up poor Philip disagreeably. “You ought to see the dog my father’s got. What’s your hurry, anyway? You can’t go till I’m ready to let you.”

He stood directly in the path, on the only dry spot. If Meg or Bobby tried to go around him, they must step into thick, black mud.

“Teacher’s pet!” mocked Tim Roon, pointing a dirty forefinger at Meg. “She didn’t know she had to tell she whispered! But I notice you could laugh at Charlie Black when he sat on the candy.”

Meg did not see what that had to do with her whispering, and perhaps Tim Roon couldn’t have told either. He was merely doing his best to be unkind and unpleasant, and succeeding as well as such ill-natured folk usually do.

“You get out of the way, Tim Roon!” cried Bobby. “Go ahead, Meg, I’ll punch him if he touches you.” 62

Tim was older and larger than Bobby, but the latter had no intention of allowing him to annoy his sister.

Meg tried to push her way past the short, sturdy body of Tim, who blocked her path. A quick twist of a vicious, sharp, little elbow jostled her into the mud, and she stepped in over one of her low shoes.

“You will, will you,” snarled Bobby, angrier than he had ever been in his life. “You just wait––knocking a girl like that!”

Tim squared off, as he had seen fighters in pictures do, and Bobby lowered his head for a rush. But Philip, who had been an interested spectator, decided that the time had come for him to be of use. With a sharp bark, he lunged straight for Tim’s legs, his sharp, even teeth showing on either side of his red tongue. Tim saw him coming, jumped to avoid him, lost his footing, and slipped. He fell into the thickest part of the mud, his foot doubled under him.

“Run, Meg!” shouted Bobby, who wisely decided that it was the better part of valor to take 63 advantage of Tim’s plight. “Come, Philip, run! run!”

Pell-mell, the stones clattering in the bag Bobby still clutched, Philip racing ahead and barking like a mad dog, the two children ran down the road and did not stop till they reached the broad band of cement walk where the east boundaries of Oak Hill were drawn.

Then they stopped and looked back, Philip panting and growling a little as if he only wanted a word to go back and repeat his good work.