“Ess,” said the baby, eagerly; “me knows how. Me die booful.”
“Yes, Rosy Posy is an awful good dier,” said Kitty. “She tumbles ker-flop and just lies still.”
This was high praise, for with the Maynards’ games of shooting Indians, wild beasts, or captured victims, it was often difficult for the martyred one to lie still without laughing.
“What’ll we use for daggers?” said Kitty.
“Here are two ivory paper-knives,” said King. “They can’t hurt the baby. I don’t see any other, except this steel one, and that’s most too sharp.”
“I’ll take that one,” said Kitty. “You and Mopsy are so crazy, you might really jab her with it, but I won’t.”
This was true enough. King and Marjorie were too impetuous in their fun to be trusted with the sharp-pointed paper-knife, but gentle little Kitty never lost her head, and would carefully guard Rosy Posy from any real harm, while seemingly as cruel and belligerent as the others.
“All right, then, here goes!” cried King. “Now, you march to the umbrella-stand and stand there, Baby.”
Rosamond obediently toddled on her way, dragging her white draperies, and taking her place as indicated, by the umbrella-stand.
King made the first charge, and, ignoring the text, he lunged at the luckless Cæsar with his ivory dagger, while he gave voice to dire maledictions.