“Harry Moore’s a milksop,” said Bob decidedly.
“Why?” asked his sister. “I thought you liked him.”
“So I did,” answered Bob, “but I hadn’t found out what a stupid he was.”
“And how did you find it out?” asked Maud.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Bob. “Last Saturday, you know, we had a paper-chase, and the track was over the bog meadows down by the river. Harry Moore and I were last, and all of a sudden he stopped and said: ‘I can’t go over these fields.’ I asked him why not, and he said they were too wet.” Bob uttered the last words very contemptuously.
“Well?” questioned Maud.
“Well, I told him he was a little milksop and had better go home, and he went, and I haven’t spoken to him since, although I met him and his little sister and brother with their go-cart this morning. I don’t care about being friends with milksops,” Bob added frankly.
“Of course not,” Maud agreed.
“Oh, bother this rain,” said Bob impatiently. “It’s going to be wet this afternoon. What shall we do?”
“Come here, children,” said their Grandfather, from his chair by the fireside. “I will tell you a little story to while away the time.”