“That’s a likely idea,” said Dean derisively. “What a fellow he is, isn’t he, doctor? He’s been grumbling ever since he lost his pet pig.”
“Well, I don’t care. I did like the little chap.”
“Yes, just because you were nursing him and getting him better. Why, Mark, you are just like a great girl with a pet lamb.”
“Oh, am I?” said Mark sourly.
“Yes, that you are. She’s so fond of it because it’s so white and skips after her, and she ties blue ribbons round its neck and is as pleased as Punch to have it running after her, and crying ma-a-a-a-a!”
“You just wait till the doctor’s gone off with father, and I’ll punch your head,” whispered Mark, as the doctor walked towards the waggon which they were following.
“I don’t care; so you are,” said Dean; “and by-and-by the pretty little lamb grows up into a great, big, ugly, stupid-looking sheep good for nothing.”
“Yes, it is—mutton.”
“And that’s how it would be,” continued Dean, “with your pet savage. It would grow old and ugly, and a perfect nuisance, and be not so good as a sheep, because you could eat that, and even you wouldn’t care to turn into an anthropop—what’s his name?”
“There, that’s just like you, Dean; you are always trying to use big ugly words that you can’t recollect the whole of. Anthropop what’s his name! Why can’t you say cannibal? Here, I will help you,” cried the boy mockingly. “Say anthropo-phagistically inclined.”