"I know I am, and that's why I've got to stop. I'm going to leave nice
little chisels and spokeshaves and smoothing planes, and mend up the
pigsty; it needs it badly, and so does the cow-shed. And then I've
got to think of ploughing, and cutting that drain across the flat, and
generally earning my living."
"Don't you worry," said David Linton. "You couldn't have done much
outside in this wet weather, and at least your house is half-furnished.
And we'll help you through with the other things."
"You're all just bricks," said Bob, his fair skin flushing--"only I
begin to feel as if I were fed with a spoon. I can't always expect to
have my work done for me."
"You haven't shown much wish to leave it for anyone else," Jim said
drily. "Neither you nor Tommy strikes this district as a loafer. Just
stop talking bosh, old man, and think what Tommy's going to say to her
mansion."
"Say?" queried Mr. Linton. "Why, she'll point out to us all the places
where she wants shelves!"
"Shelves?" yelled the three as one man.
"Yes, certainly. There was never a woman born who had enough. Don't lose
sight of your tools, Bob, for you'll go on putting up shelves as long
as you've an inch of wall to put them on. Come along, boys, and we'll go
home."
CHAPTER XIII
THE HOME ON THE CREEK
"I think it's the loveliest home that ever was!" said Tommy solemnly.
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