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"There," cried Bob, in a satisfied tone, and with a little of his old manner, "whatcher think o' that? Talk about a place for a bragfuss! Why, it would do to live in."
"Whatcher doing of?" cried the boy angrily. "Stopping you. There, you see you are better. You couldn't have attempted that a while ago." "Ya! Think I'm such a silly as to bring the enemy down upon us?" "Well, I didn't know." "Then you ought to.
He spoke in German and she answered in New-Yorkese, while her nimble fingers wrestled with the task of back-buttoning her apron. "Sure thing! It won't take hardly a minute to rattle that off. Funny-looking old thing!" she went on, taking up the creased and faded original. "Who wrote it? And whatcher goin' to do with it, grosspops?" "That," he told her, "is mine own business!
Timothy Thurston, the chief engineer, here." "Nope," replied a stout, red-faced man of forty, in flannel shirt and khaki trousers. "Mr. Thurston never eats between meals, and when he does eat he's served in his own mess tent. Whatcher want here, pardner?" "We're under orders to report to him," Tom answered politely.
The second day after receiving my goods, while driving along, wondering what would happen next, I noticed a farmer coming from his house to the barn, and after looking down the road at me a moment, climbed up on the board fence and sat there apparently waiting my coming. As I drove up, he yelled: "Halloo, stranger whatcher got to swap?" "I'll swap anything I've got. What have you to trade?"
"Whatcher doing of?" grumbled Bob, coming back to the boat, after securing a few worms. "Yah! they're no use for bait." All the same, though, the boy took one of the caterpillars, passed the hook through its rather tough skin, and threw out some distance in front of the boat, and right under the overhanging boughs.
This roused me, and I lay thinking how strange it was that he should be just as much indisposed as I was to move. But he was a fore-mast man and I was an officer, so I had only to speak to be obeyed, and after making two or three efforts which only resulted in a dull muttering sound, Bob Hampton exclaimed "Here, whatcher talking about? Who is it, and what do you want?"
At sight of Lass she paused in real interest. "My!" she exclaimed with flattering approval. "So you got your dog, did you? You didn't waste no time. And he's sure a handsome little critter. Whatcher goin' to call him?" "It's not a him, Irene," contradicted Mrs. Hazen, with another modest lowering of her strong voice. "It's a HER. And I'm sending Dick back with her, to where she came from.
"There, don't you bother your brains about that." "But I want to know." "And I want you to do all you can to get well." "Course you do. 'Tisn't fever, is it?" "Fever! No! Yes, you were feverish. Every one is after a wound. Now then," And he took out and opened his knife. "Wound! Wound!" said the boy, watching him. "Whatcher going to do with your knife?
But the next moment he had lowered him back upon the rough pallet, for a cry Punch uttered proved that he was very much alive. "I say," he cried, "whatcher doing of? Don't! You hurt?" "Oh, Punch," cried Pen, panting hard now, "how you frightened me!" "Why, I never did nothink," cried the boy in an ill-used tone. "No, no. Lie still. I only thought you were getting worse.
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