“If I can get you off the sofa will you?”
The old haircloth sofa had been a famous battle ground between the children for the past two years, and many a frolic they had had on its slippery length. Ernest would entrench himself firmly in its depths and Chicken Little would tug at arms or legs or head indiscriminately in an effort to dislodge him. She not infrequently succeeded, for while he was much the stronger, the old sofa was so slippery it was difficult to cling to it.
Chicken Little did not wait for an answer now. She made a grab at his head which he defended vigorously. A sharp tussle ensued. She got his legs on the floor twice, but he still clung to the back with his hands.
“Huh, girls are no good!” he ejaculated breathlessly.
Chicken Little’s only reply was a dash at the clinging hands.
But he spoke too soon. Chicken Little pried one hand loose and throwing her weight on the other arm before he could recover his hold, rolled him triumphantly off on the floor.
“Anyway, I didn’t promise to tell,” he crowed.
Saturday morning was a testimonial to the weather man’s good nature. It was glorious with a little frosty tang to the air and a belt of blue haze over the distant woods.
Sister Sue couldn’t go, but Mrs. Morton generously permitted Alice to supply her place, and Frank Morton was to take them out to Duck Creek some three miles away and call for them again after office hours in the afternoon. The children were wild with excitement. Alice had fried chicken before breakfast, and there had been such hunting for bags and baskets that Frank said if they filled half of them, the horses wouldn’t be able to drag the crowd and their plunder home.