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“Oh!” interposed Betty, “but they didn’t throw a sorft stone. I don’t b’lieve in sorft answers no more.” “Billy, let me plan,” May Nell interposed. “We’ll work hard to fix up the Lodge before Jean has to go home. I’ll stay and wait for you, and Bouncer with me; and I’ll search for my Idean vine. I must have something that will do for that. I wish I could find a real one.” The heat and smoke increased alarmingly as they went on, the man puffing at the boy’s pace. In and out, occasionally doubling and returning but never losing altitude, Billy crashed on. His slender body slipped through underbrush by way of small apertures that would not admit the man’s greater bulk; he had to break his way. The boy, also accustomed to running, climbing, had the advantage of better breath; though the other could not, Billy still held his mouth shut against the suffocating smoke, kept his smarting eyes partly closed..
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“Oh, Billy, Billy! My beautiful opera is ruined!” Edith wailed, as she heard the jeers of the small boys in the audience. They were a happy lot. Each held some high-sounding position, the name coined in Billy’s busy brain. His box of abused tools came forth; the much mended wheelbarrow, picks, shovels wobbly from use as well as abuse, improvised things that only an imagination as large as Billy’s could have named tools,—something for each one there. “O, that chestnut!” scornfully ejaculated Isobel. When Edith planned to turn her pupils’ recital into a great Spring Festival, for the benefit of the sufferers, all the town applauded, and asked how it could help..
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