"That's what I said, Philip—in substance."
"Yes, but you didn't say it like you believed it. When my mama tells it I can just hear the old wolf. Unker Wichard, where is—"
"Philip, I haven't finished the story yet."
In his alarm he threw himself into the remainder of the narrative with a frantic eagerness that was fairly satisfactory. Even with the highly dramatic close Philip found no fault. But when it stopped he sat with muscles tense, and eyes eager. He was plainly waiting for something else.
"Well?" he said.
"Well? That's the end."
Philip became limp.
"My mama always jumps at me, and kisses me, and eats me up," he announced in a dignified manner. He felt distinctly defrauded. "The end is always the best part of my mama's stories."
What merciless critics children are! How by instinct they see the weak point and how unerringly they strike for it!