The fine drizzling rain was changing into larger drops, and there was
every reasonable prospect of a very wet day, and I thought he must be
joking; but I answered:
"_When?_"
"_Now_," was the reply.
"_Where?_" I asked.
"_Bixbee's pond._"
"_Are you in earnest?_"
"_I will meet you there._"
I answered "_Yes_," and, shouldering my fish-pole, started off
across-lots. The distance was fully a mile and a half, and before I had
passed over a quarter of the distance the bushes, dripping with rain, had
completely drenched me. When nearly there the increasing rain became a
heavy shower; but I kept on. I reached the pond, but nothing was to be
seen of Harry. Not a frog could I find for bait, owing to the incessantly
pouring rain, and I knew it would be difficult to find a worm. So, after
half an hour of tedious waiting and monotonous soaking, I started for
Harry's, my patience entirely worn out.
The rain came down in torrents as, at length, I turned in at the gate;
and I suppose I looked as forlorn as a drenched rooster, for I heard a
girlish giggle as I stepped upon the piazza, but I did not then suspect
the truth.
"Where's Harry?" I asked of his mother whom I found alone.
"Why, you didn't expect to find him at home, did you? He won't be back
for a number of days yet."
(Another subdued giggle from the next room.)
"You're as wet as a drowned rat!" went on the motherly woman. "What on
earth started you out in this rain?"
"It's that Hattie's work!" I burst out angrily, and told her the whole
story.
"Dear me!" she exclaimed, holding up her hands, despairingly, "I never
did see such a torment as that girl is! I noticed she has seemed very
much tickled over something! I'll give her a real scolding!"
I darted out the door; and, as I splashed my way disconsolately down to
the road, I heard a voice, struggling between repentance and a desire to
laugh, call after me:
"Forgive me, Charlie, but it was _such_ a joke!"
Hattie never meddled with her brother's signals again. For her mother's
displeasure and the severe cold that followed my drenching more than
balanced the enjoyment she derived from that very practical joke.
* * * * *
Two years ago I visited my native town. Resuming my old place by the barn
window, I gazed across the intervening forest to where Harry used to
stand and signal to me. Tacked up against the window-sill was my old
"signal code," covered with dust and cobwebs. Harry was hundreds of miles
away, carving himself a name among his fellow-men. Of all the friends of
former days, scarcely one remained in the old town. And I could only
wish, with all my heart, that I were once again enjoying my boyhood's
happy hours.
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[B] If the buildings should be painted, the flags should
be of a color that would contrast with that of the paint.