Fitz Mee giggled and held his sides and rocked to and fro.
“What’s the matter of you, anyhow?” Bob cried crossly.
His comrade continued to laugh, his knees drawn up to his chin, his fat face convulsed.
“Old Giggle-box!” the boy stormed. “You think you’re smart—making fun of me.”
Fitz Mee grew grave at once.
“Bob,” he said soberly, “you’ll get into trouble, and you’ll get me into trouble.”
“I don’t care.”
“Go to bed at once, that’s a good boy.”
“I won’t do it.”