After her fall Margy rolled along the path a short distance, for she was a round little girl, quite chubby and, as her father often said, “about as broad as she was long.”
As Margy rolled along, the box she had been carrying also rolled.
There was nothing very strange in Margy’s rolling over and over after a tumble. She often did that. So did the other little Bunkers. So, also, do you if you are little and fat.
There was also nothing very strange in the box, which Margy had been carrying, rolling over. That is, there would not have been anything strange if the box had just rolled in one direction.
But it did not. It rolled this way and that way and the other way and then it rolled this way again, in such a strange manner that Russ cried:
“What in the world can be in that box to make it go that way?”
“It’s just as if it was alive!” said Rose.
“Maybe it’s a riddle!” suggested Laddie.
Mrs. Bunker had gone to Margy to pick her up. Beyond a scratch or two and some bruises, together with some dust on her dress, Margy was unharmed. She was used to cuts and bruises, so these did not much matter. Nor did the dust.
Russ ran to pick up the queer, rolling box, calling out: