“Do hurry, Phronsie,” he begged, coming back to hasten matters; “there, don’t you see your woolly boy isn’t lame? he’s walking up your arm like everything.”
“He likes it,” said Phronsie, subduing all desire to get free, since this promenade appeared to be so well suited to the caterpillar. “He’s getting all well, Davie.”
“Well, he isn’t going to walk up your arm like that,” declared Davie, unceremoniously picking off the caterpillar; “now, Mister Woolly Boy, I’ll carry you.”
“Oh, no, no, Davie, let me,” cried Phronsie, holding out her hands; “he’s my very own woolly boy, and I like him.”
“Well, hold him in your hand, then,—like this.” Davie doubled over Phronsie’s fat little thumb and the fingers. “Not too tight or you’ll squash him.”
“What’s squash?” asked Phronsie, trying to peek in the cracks between her fingers at her treasure.
“Why, smash,” said David; “you’d smash him all to bits, and then there wouldn’t be anything left of him but his fur coat and the juice.”
“What’s juice?” asked Phronsie.
“Oh, that’s his insides,” said Davie; “take care now, don’t squeeze him.”
“Wouldn’t there be any little woolly boy inside of his fur coat?” asked Phronsie, stumbling along with the greatest difficulty, both eyes fastened on her closed hand.