“Hello, smarties!” was his greeting. “How’s teacher’s pet?”
“I’m not teacher’s pet,” retorted Bobby indignantly.
“Nobody said you were,” answered Tim Roon. “Can’t a person speak to your sister, without you taking it all on yourself?”
Bobby flushed angrily.
“You needn’t speak to my sister unless you 61 can talk right,” he said rapidly. “Come on, Meg, call Philip, and we’ll go.”
The dog was hunting in the marsh and came bounding out at Meg’s first call.
“Just a mutt.” Tim Roon summed up poor Philip disagreeably. “You ought to see the dog my father’s got. What’s your hurry, anyway? You can’t go till I’m ready to let you.”
He stood directly in the path, on the only dry spot. If Meg or Bobby tried to go around him, they must step into thick, black mud.
“Teacher’s pet!” mocked Tim Roon, pointing a dirty forefinger at Meg. “She didn’t know she had to tell she whispered! But I notice you could laugh at Charlie Black when he sat on the candy.”
Meg did not see what that had to do with her whispering, and perhaps Tim Roon couldn’t have told either. He was merely doing his best to be unkind and unpleasant, and succeeding as well as such ill-natured folk usually do.