the least bit sharper, that bewildered old gardener might have caught the excited murmur of happy young voices drifting off down the alley, and the mystic whistled call which echoed softly out from behind Johnson's barn, where Dode Johnson rebelliously and languidly gathered chips, in an old market-basket, and made patient and needlessly exhaustive observations on the traveling powers of a wood-slug.
"Hey-oh, there, Dode!" cried a muffled voice.
"Goin' fishin'?" demanded Dode, softly, without rising from his knees, as he caught sight of that telltale little band and sniffed at the penetrating yet mysteriously fragrant odor of burning punk and dock-stems.
"Sure!" said Piggie Brennan, turning over a board in search for worms. "Can't you make your sneak, Dode?"
Dode looked about him, guardedly. A moment later he emerged, puffing, dirt-covered, red-faced, worming his way out from under the driving-shed.
"I thought you had to clean them turnips up out o' your cellar?" he said to Redney McWilliams, as he lit up luxuriously.
