“O—er, I’m—er going for a walk, Mrs. Bronson,” he stammered, jumping up; and, taking off his cap, he turned on his heel and started on again, never once daring to look behind.
But the Sunday shoes were soon pinching in good earnest. He could stand them no longer, so he pulled them off, and, swinging them on his shoulder, went on in his stocking feet.
Uphill and downhill he trudged. How hot the sun was! And how tired and bruised his poor feet were getting!
“I guess I’ll take another little rest,” he said as he limped across the road. “It’s nice and shady here by the brook and I am some tired.”
Down upon the sweet green grass he lay. The candy counter at Blakeville was beginning to lose its charm, and—
Robert sat up in a sudden fright. A solemn voice was calling to him from the woods: “Bubby-gu-hum! Bubby-gu-hum!”
Robert turned fearfully, and there, on a stone in the brook, sat a great, blinking frog.
“I won’t go home, you naughty frog!” he cried. “I’m going to Nurse’s.” Then, ka-splash! and Mr. Frog had disappeared.
There was a queer buzzing in Robert’s head, and presently he was fast asleep in spite of himself.
The sun set. The little boy slept on. A cool breeze came up, and Robert tried to pull the bedclothes over him, but there weren’t any clothes to pull—and he awoke.