“Don’t be so stubborn, Martin. We’re all waiting to see it.”
Joyce’s gaze was riveted on the mouse. She remembered the ominous click in its vitals, when she had been giving it an ecstatic trial. But perhaps Martin, with the magic boys have in these matters, could make it go again, as it went—so thrillingly, in mouselike darts and curves—on the cigar-store floor.
Martin put it down, giving it a deft push. It ran a few inches and stopped.
“It runs fine,” he said hastily. “But it won’t go here on the rug.”
“Let’s see it,” said Ben, whose mechanical sense was not satisfied by so brief an exhibition.
“It’s mine,” snapped Martin fiercely, and put it in his pocket.
“We really must go,” said someone.
“Would you each like a piece of Martin’s cake to take home?”
“Oh, no, thank you, I think they’ve had plenty.”
“Did you make a wish?”