Now if the Tutchy children had not been mad they would have jumped up and down and shouted and half-smothered Baby with hugs and kisses; but being mad, they went silently about—their silence, to tell the truth, would have been considered noise by a small, quiet family—preparing for their walk.
And when they were ready, if Maud had not set them the example, they would have actually forgotten to kiss mamma “good-by.” Dear me! how mad they were!
Off they started in a funereal manner, Susie and Maud ahead, the other girls following two by two, and the boys dragging Baby, still holding the broken-nosed doll, in her little wagon on the sled, bringing up the rear.
Baby crowed and cooed and prattled to her dollie—there never was a jollier baby in the whole world—but still Will and Bobbie frowned and pouted.
“I wish we didn’t have to lug Baby everywhere,” at last said Willie.
“So do I,” said Robbie.
They had never thought, much less said such a thing before, but then they had never been quite as mad before.
Suddenly the sound of a drum was heard, then the shrill blasts of horns and the ear-piercing strains of a fife, and they could see a crowd gathering in the distance.
“Hurry up!” called Susie, who had remarkably sharp eyes, “there’s some men on horseback dressed awful funny!” and away she ran, dragging Maud by the hand, and away went Nellie, Lizzie, Annie and Sallie after her as fast as they could go.
“We can’t run with Baby,” said Willie, “and we’ll miss all the fun!”