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Pshaw! That was always the way! The more pains you took, the worse was the writing. Some of the letters were awfully small and crooked and others were too big; and the whole thing slanted down hill so that there was scarcely room for his name underneath in the corner; and of course his name must be there. However, just before the quitting whistle blew, Bob happened to be near the spot where the Indians were excavating. He took this opportunity to go up to Feather-in-the-Wind who was directing his men. Ostensibly he asked something regarding the work but it was only to give the Indian a chance to convey any message he might have. The Apache did have something to say. Yes, the apple boat. It was painted green as it had been last year; the sails were patched; the poorest apples lay in heaps on the deck, the medium sort were in bags, and the best apples were in baskets. In the midst of this tempting abundance Mrs. Lind, who was uncommonly stout, usually sat, knitting. When her husband was up in town delivering apples Mrs. Lind took care of the boat, the apples, and Nils and everything. Nils, their son, was more to look after than all the rest put together, for he was the worst scalawag to be found along the whole coast..
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He had a match and if there was enough wood there was a chance. The planking of the door was dry and there was no reason why it would not catch. But my, oh, my! how wet they were! They sprang to their feet and ran—up over the Tongue, over mound and marsh; they climbed over fences and waded through thick-growing heather. Now and again they glanced seaward, seeking the boat and the umbrella, but not a scrap of either was to be seen—a fine result from their grand adventure, truly! “Good-by.” He bowed, his little naked heels put together in most formal manner. “How do you know?”.
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