Tippy felt lively this morning, as we already know. The wind blew his ears back flat against his head. His glistening little black nose smelled all kinds of sweet odors—flower gardens, wet grass, damp sticks and leaves. His shining brown eyes saw many sights—puddles, and men, a lady or two, birds catching worms, a butcher’s boy, with a basket, whistling a tune.
Though the ground was wet and the sky was still gray, to Tippy it was the gayest kind of a morning.
‘I could run and run and run forever,’ said Tippy to himself.
And that is just what he did do, run and run and run, until at last, when Tippy stopped to draw a long breath, he stood in a strange street where he had never been before. He didn’t know in the least where he was nor how to get home to Sally’s house again.
But Tippy didn’t mean to go home for a long, long while. He meant to stay away until Sally had forgotten all about Tilly Maud or until he had forgotten about Tilly Maud himself.
At any rate he meant to stay just where he was until he found out what was the matter with the little boy who at this moment flung open the door of the house before which Tippy was standing and ran with a scream straight down the path to the street.
The little boy’s face was red and he flung his arms about as he ran, and when he reached the street he turned around and ran right back to the porch steps again. There he jumped up and down, screaming all the while, and ran his fingers through his hair until it stood out all round about his head.
This was a tantrum, Tippy knew, because Sally sometimes had them, just like this. She, too, screamed and jumped up and down and even ran her fingers through her hair.
‘I shan’t leave here until I find out what this tantrum is about,’ thought curious little Tip.
And slowly, very slowly, he crept through the half-open gate and over the grass toward the wide porch steps.