Jane came out to the sidewalk and began to kick one of the fence-pickets.
“You see that ole fatty?” asked the little girl, pointing to one of the workmen, thus sufficiently identified.
“Yes.”
“That's the one broke the goldfish,” said the little girl. There was a pause during which she continued to scuff the curbstone with her shoe, Jane likewise scuffing the fence-picket. “I'm goin' to have papa get him arrested,” added the stranger.
“My papa got two men arrested once,” Jane said, calmly. “Two or three.”
The little girl's eyes, wandering upward, took note of Jane's papa's house, and of a fierce young gentleman framed in an open window up-stairs. He was seated, wore ink upon his forehead, and tapped his teeth with a red penholder.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“It's Willie.”
“Is it your papa?”
“NO-O-O-O!” Jane exclaimed. “It's WILLIE!”