“Oh, you popinjay! I wish you and I were ragpickers—”
“What!”
“It's my ambition. I don't want to be a miniature painter all my life. But to be a ragpicker—ah, there's something to strive for! A rattlebanging cart, with jangling bells on a string across the back, a galled jade of a horse, broken traces, mismated lines—whoa!—giddap, there! oh—Warble, come with me!”
He swooped her up in one gigantic arm, but she slipped through and running around, faced him impishly.
“Would you really like me to go ridy-by in your wagon, and curl up in the rags and watch the stars shoot around overhead?”
“No, better stay here—” he patted her shoulder gently, leaving a deep purple bruise.
“Why?”
“Better not stay here—better go home.”
“Why?”
“Goodby.”