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Updated: June 26, 2025
"Shotwell!" laughed John. "He's got about as much agony to conceal as a wash-bench with a broken leg. O, I'll conceal mine if anybody'll tell me how." Champion closed his lips but laughed audibly, in his stomach. "Well, then, get that face off of you. You look like a boy that'd lost all his money at a bogus snake-show."
Gail can't find it." "Why, it's on the wash-bench under the pantry window, covered up with the big dishpan." "There is nothing under the dishpan but an empty plate." "Hope! You are fooling!" "Cross my heart and hope to die," was the solemn answer. "Gail looked and I looked. She says somebody must have stolen it." "The tramp!" cried Faith and Cherry in one voice.
"Hurry, children, and get washed and dressed for breakfast." And going to the basin, which was in its place on the wash-bench outside the door, with much discussion as to who should have the first chance, hands and faces were treated to a hasty bath. Mr. Jones was about forty-five years of age a short, thick-set man, with dark hair and heavy beard.
May I sit in that pretty place; or is it your private bower?" asked Emily, as she dismounted from the wash-bench. "Yes, indeed you may. That's mother's resting-place when work is done. Father made the spring long ago, and I put the ferns there. She can't go rambling round, and she likes pretty things, so we fixed it up for her, and she takes comfort there nights."
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