“I’m afraid that won’t do any good.”
“Might twy it,” Toddie suggested. “Ah—h—h—Budgie’ makin’ some of my buns baldheaded.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Burton asked.
“He’s takin’ de raisins off de tops of ’em, an’ dat makes ’em baldheaded.”
“I was only keepin’ ’em from lookin’ all alike,” explained Budge, hastily putting the raisins where they could not be affected by any future proceedings. “Don’t you see, Toddie, you’ll have two kinds of buns now?”
“Don’t want two kindsh,” cried Toddie. “I’ze a good mind to cut you open an’ take dem heads back again.”
Budge was reproved by his aunt, and Toddie was pacified by the removal of raisins from his brother’s buns to his own. Then some of the little pans were placed in the vacant space in the oven, and during the next fifteen minutes Mrs. Burton was implored at least twenty times to see if they weren’t almost done. When, finally baked, Toddie’s were as small as bullets and about as hard.
“Put some powder in de rest of dem,” pleaded Toddie.
“It wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good,” said Mrs. Burton.
Further entreaties led to a conflict between will and authority, after which Toddie sulked and disappeared, carrying one of his precious pans with him. When he returned the baking was over, and the oven-door was open.