Then Willie grew grave. “I’ll tell you what!” he said, suddenly struck with a bright idea. “Go and ask Mamma while you’re both crying. Quick—don’t leave off! You cry real hard, Baby!”
And up the “next door” steps the two young rascals went, and cried copiously when Willie’s mother opened the door.
“Why, my dears, what is wrong?” she asked, in dismay, as she drew them inside.
“We—we—wa-nt—Willie,” sobbed Doris.
“Want Willie!” echoed Baby, and cried out loudly.
“But he’s not at home, my dears. Isn’t he in at your place?”
“Ye-es, but we wa-wa-nt him up the country with us, an’ if you do-do-don’t let him come, he’ll—he’ll run away to sea,” went on Doris, getting mixed up in her story; “an’—an’—die on the track—an’—an’ the dingoes’ll eat him all up.”
Then Baby roared real genuine tears of distress.
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Taylor, “he’d never do that, would he?”
For she saw through their conspiracy and guessed that Willie was waiting next door, all impatience to hear how his two little champions got on.