“Fatty!”
“It’s scarcely fair, you know,” came a new voice. “You see, twenty needles at once are really more than are needed.”
“Humph, Tommy Pin Cushion,” answered Silver Thimble. “What you sticking your ’pinion in for? It’s a wonder Sewing Bird hasn’t stuck her bill in! Tommy Pin Cushion, you might just as well keep out of this—everybody knows you’re stuck on yourself—Fatty!”
“You conceited old Silver Thimble,” came the voice of Pin Cushion. “You will please address me by my full name—‘Tomato-Pin-Cushion, Custodian-of-the-Sword-Needles’;—and what’s more, if you don’t quickly remove all those needles from poor Emery, you won’t get any more sword-needles to wield. So there! You know Sewing Bird’s taking forty winks; that’s why you don’t act in your best military manner.”
Silver Thimble looked toward Sewing Bird, whose eyes began to open, and quickly went toward Emery Bag. Taking out the needles, one at a time, he ran to Pin Cushion and quilted each into its place.
“You conceited old Silver Thimble.”
“There!” he exclaimed at length, “I’m certainly
glad I’ve ‘stacked all my arms’—my, I’m tired!”
As he leaned back to yawn, off fell his helmet and he
melted away.