“O! my little blue-eyed Dorr,” said mamma, “wouldn’t you care to be scalped?”
“Why’d I care?” answered Dorr. “Wouldn’t my ‘feet be to the foe’?”
Mamma could not but laugh at her stern little man; and then she thought he had better go with the girls in the garden.
And there he was not a moment too soon. The sacred inclosure was already invaded by a ruthless hand—a fat, yellowish-black little hand, which was thrust through the paling, evidently after one of Soph’s treasures—the beautiful rose-pink dwarf dahlia.
Dorr saw it. “Soph! Soph! he’s breaking off your new Mex’can Lilliput dahlia!” and headlong went Sergeant Dorr toward the fence; but, half way there, he tripped in the tall asters, and crushed dozens of mamma’s choice autumn blooms as he fell.
Soph and Trudie both came running down the gravel. The boy behind the paling also ran, or would, had not the fat arm been thrust in too far; for, turning it in haste, it stuck fast, and now held him Sergeant Dorr’s prisoner.
His fall had made Sergeant Dorr very mad; and, picking himself up, he drove toward the paling in hot haste. “You flower-thief! them’s Soph’s flowers! You clear out of this, or I’ll shoot you with my sword!”
And the sword was brandished; and as Roly-poly couldn’t “clear out,” much as he wished, he staid, his hand still clasping the stalk of the “Mex’can Lilliput,” which he seemed unable to let go. Seeing that, down came Dorr’s wooden sword upon the arm! It was a sturdy stroke, too, so sturdy that the sword bounded and flew over on the other side, where an angry little bare black foot kicked it far out into the road, while the owner of the foot howled with pain.
“Dorr Eastman!” cried Trudie.
“You cruel, cruel boy!” cried Soph.