It was Friday, and Saturday was to be given over to packing up for school. Yet on Saturday morning Tom managed to call Sam aside.
"We'll go over to Fox's," said he. "Are you ready?"
"I am, Tom," answered the younger brother. "And be sure and pile it on."
"Trust me for that," and Tom winked in a fashion that set Sam to roaring.
They found Joel Fox at work along the roadside, mending a part of a stone wall which had tumbled down. Fox was a Yankee, and miserly and sour to the very core.
"Well, what do you want?" he demanded, as the boys came to a halt in front of him.
"Why, Mr. Fox, I thought you had skipped out!" cried Tom in pretended surprise.
"Skipped out?"
"Yes."
"Why should I skip out, boy?"
"On account of Harry Smith."
"Harry Smith? Who is he?"
"Harry Smith of Oak Run—the boy who was shot the other day. Didn't you hear he was dead?"
At these words Joel Fox dropped the tools he was using and turned pale.
