“No!” exclaimed Buster John with a lofty air, but not loudly. “Don’t you see he’s not a bit like the fairies we read about in books? Why, he was afraid of a wood-sawyer.”
“That’s so,” Sweetest Susan rejoined.
“He’s a witch, dat what he is,” said Drusilla.
“Shucks!” whispered Buster John. He heard the voice of Mr. Thimblefinger under the wood-pile.
“I’ve found it, I’ve found it!” he cried. And presently he made his appearance, dragging the knife after him. He tugged at it until he got it out, and then he sat down on a chip, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, and fanned himself with a thin flake of pine bark no bigger than a bee’s wing.
“Pick me up and let’s go on top of the wood-pile,” said Mr. Thimblefinger after a while. “It’s suffocating down here. Ouch! don’t tickle me, if you do I shall have a fit.” Buster John had lifted him by placing a thumb and forefinger under his arms. “And don’t squeeze me, neither,” the little man went on. “I was cramped under that bark until I’m as sore as a boil all over. Goodness! I wish I was at home!”
“Where do you live?” asked Sweetest Susan when they were once more seated on the wood-pile.
“Not far from here, not very far,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, shaking his head sagely, “but it is a different country—oh, entirely different.”
Sweetest Susan edged away from the little man at this, and Drusilla stretched her eyes.
“What is it like?” asked Buster John boldly.