“And you've been bumping it,” said Polly; “oh! Joel, how could you! You might have broken it; then what would mamsie say?”
“I didn't,” said Joel, stoutly, with his hands in his pockets, “bump it worse'n Davie, so there!”
“Why, Davie,” said Polly, turning to him sorrowfully, “I shouldn't have thought you would!”
“Well, I'm tired of hanging it up,” said little Davie, vehemently; “and I said I wasn't a-goin' to; Joel always makes me; I've done it for two million times, I guess!”
“Oh, dear,” said Polly, sinking back into the chair, “I don't know what I ever shall do; here's Phronsie hurt; and we want to celebrate to-morrow; and you two boys are bumping and banging out the bread pail, and—”
“Oh! we won't!” cried both of the children, perfectly overwhelmed with remorse; “we'll hang it right up.”
“I'll hang it,” said Davie, clattering off down the stairs with a will.
“No, I will!” shouted Joel, going after him at double pace; and presently both came up with shining faces, and reported it nicely done.
“And now,” said Polly, after they had all sat around the stove another half-hour, watching and sniffing expectantly, “the cake's done!—dear me! it's turning black!”
And quickly as possible Polly twitched it out with energy, and set it on the table.