"Oh that dreadful Dickon!" moaned 'Lisbeth, as she fluttered down the stairs to bring him back.
Had Dickon never stopped work, had Dickon never run away, had 'Lisbeth never fluttered after him, things might have been different. I say they might have been, because, as I explained before, nobody could be quite sure as to what might or might not have been concerning 'Lisbeth; I say therefore that they might have been different. As it was Dickon did run away, and 'Lisbeth did flutter after him, and, as she went, she thought of a plan she had not been able to think of while sitting on the three-legged stool with her face to the wall—she thought of a plan to get money.
'Lisbeth forgot that she was fluttering after Dickon; she forgot that Dickon had gone at all; she forgot everything but that she had thought of a plan to get money. She forgot about Dickon, but kept on running faster and faster until she was red in the face and out of breath.
"Please, sir," said 'Lisbeth, gasping for breath, and rushing up to a little spare man in a little spare coat, who lived in the dirty old cellar of the sixth house from 'Lisbeth's, and bought paper and rags; "please, sir, come dreadful quick!"
"How?" screamed the little man; "how?"
He meant to say "What for? please tell me what is the matter?" but he said "How?"
"With your feet! Fast, dreadful fast," gasped 'Lisbeth. No wonder she gasped for breath, she had come faster and faster from the top of the house to the cellar of the sixth house below, without even taking time to think; she did not stop afterward to think.
"My feet? My feet?"
"Please to come! oh, please to come!" pleaded 'Lisbeth, fairly dancing up and down.
"My hat, my hat! oh, my hat!" pleaded the little man, turning and twisting all about; "my hat! my hat!"