Max would have none of such folly.
“I’m me,” he said determinedly.
Miss Bibby sought to gather him up in her arms—the natural instinct. For indeed when your rebel’s “trousers” measure but three inches in the inner seam you cannot regard him as other than a baby.
But he held fast to the wire fence of the guinea-pigs’ run.
“I won’t be nursed,” he said. She stood ten minutes cajoling him, wheedling, coaxing, threatening. No, he would not return to his corner and work out his punishment, even though the punisher was eagerly offering to reduce the duration of it to “exactly three minutes, Max darling,—see, by this pretty little watch, and then we can all be friends again.”
No, Max would have no traffic at all in the offer of such an ignominious position.
“Well, see here, Max,” said the helpless lady recognizing and bowing at last to the stronger will, “if I let you off the corner will you run in and kiss Muffie and Anna to show you are sorry?” (The word “apologize” was eliminated now from this last treaty.)
No, Max would not kiss either Anna or Muffie. They were both “bad girls.”
“Very well, Max,” said Miss Bibby, “you [p213] only leave me one resort. I shall shut you up until you are good.”
“I can run licker than you,” was Max’s reply, and he ducked beneath her arm and dashed across the garden.