He preferred to
begin now, and trust to fate--and his brother Will--to pull him through.
Will raked the hay thoughtfully for a few minutes without replying.
He was a clear-headed youth, and he speedily caught the drift of
Ted's ideas.
"It'll be good enough for him," said Will, at length, "but you've got
a good deal of gall, it seems to me, young one! Why, Will Hen'll pound
you for it, sure. He'll know it's your doing."
"Let him pound, the brute!" answered Ted, defiantly. "Anyway, I don't
suppose _you_ are going to let him handle me _too_ rough! I dare
say he won't actually punch me, for fear of getting into a row
with you--though" (and here a wicked twinkle came into Ted's eye, for
he knew the pugnacity that lurked in his big brother's scientific
nature), "though he _does_ say he can particularly knock the
stuffing out of you!"
"Dear me," murmured Will, grinning thoughtfully. "If he talks to you
about it, tell him there isn't any stuffing in me to speak of."
During this conversation the boys had both, for a few minutes, forgotten
to watch the seat under the elm tree. Suddenly Ted glanced up, a thrill
of mingled apprehension and delight went through him as he saw Mr. Israel
Hand approaching the fatal spot.
"Look, quick!" he exclaimed, in a gleeful whisper.
Will looked. But Will was not amused.
"Hi! there! _Don't sit down_, Mr. Hand! Don't!" He yelled, jumping
into the air and waving his hay rake to attract additional attention.
But it was too late!
Mr.
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