“No fun; just two of us.  Wish school was over, so the boys would come in; doctor said I might see them now.”

“They’ll be along by and by, and I’ll hail them.  Till then, what shall we do?  I’m your man for anything, only put a name to it.”

“Just wish I had a telegraph or a telephone, so I could talk to Jill.  Wouldn’t it be fun to pipe across and get an answer!”

“I’ll make either you say;” and Frank looked as if trifles of that sort were to be had for the asking.

“Could you, really?”

“We’ll start the telegraph first, then you can send things over if you like,” said Frank, prudently proposing the surest experiment.

“Go ahead, then.  I’d like that, and so would Jill, for I know she wants to hear from me.”

“There’s one trouble, though; I shall have to leave you alone for a few minutes while I rig up the ropes;” and Frank looked sober, for he was a faithful boy, and did not want to desert his post.

“Oh, never mind; I won’t want anything.  If I do, I can pound for Ann.”

“And wake mother.  I’ll fix you a better way than that;” and, full of inventive genius, our young Edison spliced the poker to part of a fishing-rod in a jiffy, making a long-handled hook which reached across the room.

“There’s an arm for you; now hook away, and let’s see how it works,” he said, handing over the instrument to Jack, who proceeded to show its unexpected capabilities by hooking the cloth off the table in attempting to get his handkerchief, catching Frank by the hair when fishing for a book, and breaking a pane of glass in trying to draw down the curtain.

“It’s so everlasting long, I can’t manage it,” laughed Jack, as it finally caught in his bed-hangings, and nearly pulled them, ring and all, down upon his head.

“Let it alone, unless you need something very much, and don’t bother about the glass.  It’s just what we want for the telegraph wire or rope to go through.  Keep still, and I’ll have the thing running in ten minutes;” and, delighted with the job, Frank hurried away, leaving Jack to compose a message to send as soon as it was possible.

“What in the world is that flying across the Minots’ yard,—­a brown hen or a boy’s kite?” exclaimed old Miss Hopkins, peering out of her window at the singular performances going on in her opposite neighbor’s garden.

First, Frank appeared with a hatchet and chopped a clear space in the hedge between his own house and the cottage; next, a clothes line was passed through this aperture and fastened somewhere on the other side; lastly, a small covered basket, slung on this rope, was seen hitching along, drawn either way by a set of strings; then, as if satisfied with his job, Frank retired, whistling “Hail Columbia.”

“It’s those children at their pranks again.  I thought broken bones wouldn’t keep them out of mischief long,” said the old lady, watching with great interest the mysterious basket travelling up and down the rope from the big house to the cottage.