“We’ll do that,” said Old Pluck. “Tomtit, you go tell those people that the town has got to burn, and there’s no use talking any more about it.”
“That’s so,” said Tomtit. “She has got to burn.” And with his chest thrown out, and his hands in his pockets, the little fellow boldly advanced to the crowd of people.
As soon as he came near the old men, the women and the children fell on their knees around him, and with tears and lamentations besought him to intercede with the robbers to save their town. Poor little Tomtit was very much moved by their wild grief and despair. Tears came into his eyes, and his little chest heaved with emotion; but he kept up a brave heart, and stood true to his companions.
“It’s no use,” he said, “for you to be blubbering and crying. Your houses have all got to be burned up, and the powder-magazine has got to go off with a big bang, and your furniture and beds will all be burned, and the babies’ cradles, and—and—I’m awful sorry for it,” and here the tears rolled down his cheeks; “but we boys have got to stick by each other, and you won’t have any homes, and I expect you will all perish—boo-hoo! But it won’t do to back down—boo-hoo-hoo! And the little babies will die; but the old thing has got to burn, you know.”
“Now, look here, Tomtit,” said Old Pluck, who, with the rest of the boys, had drawn near, “don’t you be too hard on these people. I say let the town stand.”
The boys agreed with one voice. And Tomtit, kicking one of his little legs above his head, shouted in ecstasy: “Yes, sir, let the town stand, babies and all.”
At this the women rushed up to the little fellow, and, seizing him in their arms, nearly kissed him to death.
“I’d like to know what we are to do next,” sadly remarked Old Pluck.
“I’ll tell you,” cried Tomtit. “Let the chief steal a bride.”
The whole company stopped and looked at Tomtit. “Little boy,” said they, “what do you mean?”