“The cake!” roared Joel. This time it was so very loud, no one could possibly think it was a rooster. So little Davie cried joyfully, “Oh, he’s found it, Phronsie,” and they both scuffed over.
“Oh, don’t let her come,” screamed Joel, in terror, and trying to hide behind Polly’s apron. But it was too late.
“He’s found it!” piped Phronsie, in a gleeful little voice, and holding up both hands. “Oh, give it to me, Polly, do.”
“Oh!” screamed Joel, huddling around Polly’s other side, and twirling her apron.
“Take care, Joe, you’ll break the strings,” she warned. “Now, children, you two go and sit down,” pointing to the wooden chairs ranged against the wall every day after breakfast was over, and the floor swept up, “just a minute, and I’ll come over to you.”
“But I want my cake, Polly, I do,” said Phronsie, reproachfully, and very much astonished at this delay, for Polly always attended to her at once. “Please, Polly, give it to me now,” she begged.
At this, Joel, on Polly’s other side, began to struggle in and out the apron depths worse than ever.
“Joe, be still,” commanded Polly, in her sternest tones. “If you don’t, you will have to go into the ‘Provision Room.’”
At these dreadful words little Davie’s cheek turned quite pale. What had Joel done? But Phronsie’s mind was all on her cake, and she continued to gaze at Polly in grieved astonishment, and to beg, “Please, Polly, give it to me now.”
“See here, Phronsie,” said Polly, at her wit’s end what to do; “you must be a good girl now, and do just as I say, else Mamsie will be so sorry when she comes home; so you must go and sit down in that chair till I go over to you.”