Tim Roon, as usual, was loitering along, his hands in his pockets, his lips puckered up for the whistle that didn’t come. Tim never quite did anything he started to do, whether it was to weed his father’s garden or whistle a tune.
“Hello!” he said, stopping close to Meg. “What have we in the large box?”
“Go ’way,” returned Meg fearfully. “Leave Bobby be. That’s my new dress.”
Tim’s voice changed to a high, squeaky, thin note.
“‘Call me early, Mother,’” he chortled, “‘for I’m to be Queen of the May, Mother, I’m to be Queen of the May.’”
“You take the box, Meg,” said Bobby angrily, “while I hit that big chump.”
Meg reached for the box, but Tim was quicker and he knocked it spinning. Then away he went, running at top speed, his shouts of laughter echoing up the street.
“I’ll bet it’s all mud!” mourned Meg, crying a little. “Oh, Bobby, did it fall in a puddle?”
Bobby was peeping under the tissue paper covers. 139
“’Tisn’t hurt a mite,” he declared. “Not one spot, Meg. See, the box fell right side up. Isn’t that lucky?”