"If old Plunkit sees us in his corn, he’ll be mad," said Fred, at last.
"This is the nearest way to the house, and we’ve got to try and get your clothes," said Bobby, firmly.
After that, he took the lead. The nearer they approached the farmhouse, the more Fred lagged. But suddenly, in the midst of the long cornfield, Master Martin uttered a cry.
"What’s the matter with you? I thought it was the dog."
"Yes. But it has clothes on it. I’m going to take them. I’m not going up to that house without anything more on me than what I’ve got."
Bobby began to chuckle at that. It seemed too funny for anything to rob a scarecrow. But Fred was pushing his way through the corn toward the absurd figure.
Suddenly Fred uttered another yell—this time his famous warwhoop:
"You got who?" demanded Bobby, hurrying after his chum.
"This is some o’ that Ap Plunkit’s doings—the mean thing! Look here!" and he snatched the cap off the scarecrow’s head of straw.
"Why—that looks like _your_ cap, Fred," gasped Bobby.
"That—that’s just the stripe of your shirt!"
"And it is my shirt. And it’s my pants, and all!" cried Fred. "I’ll get square with Ap Plunkit yet—you see if I don’t. There’s the old ragged things this scarecrow wore, on the ground. And he’s dressed it in _my_ things. Oh, you wait till I catch him!"
Meanwhile Fred was hastily tearing off the garments that certainly were his own. They were all here. Bobby kept away from him, and laughed silently to himself. It was really too, too funny; but he did not want to make Fred angry with _him_.
"Now I guess we’d better not go to the farmhouse—had we?" demanded Bobby.
"Let’s go home," grunted Fred, very sour. "It’s almost sundown."
"He tore my shirt, too. And we might never have found these clothes. I’m going to get square," Fred kept muttering, as they struck right down between the corn rows toward the distant roadside fence.
Just as they climbed over the rails to leap into the road they were hailed by a voice that said:
"Hey there! what you doin’ in that cornfield?"
There was the Plunkit hopeful—otherwise Applethwaite, the white-headed boy. He sat on the top rail near by and grinned at the two boys from town.
"There you are—you mean thing!" cried Fred Martin, and before Bobby could stop him, he rushed at the bigger fellow.