“He isn’t marching—he’s just an old mud-turtle crawling,” he cried in disgust.
“Oh, Joel!” cried Polly. “Now, Peletiah, you must go faster.”
“He called me a mud-turtle,” Peletiah stopped in his tracks, his face red clear up to his tow hair.
“Joel oughtn’t to have said that,” said Polly, “but you must go faster. Don’t you see I can’t march at all unless you do.”
“I’m not going to march,” declared Peletiah, deserting the ranks to go across the kitchen and sit down in one of the chairs backed up against the wall, “and he called me a mud-turtle, and as soon as I’m rested, I’m going home.”
“Oh, no,” said Polly, “you couldn’t do that. Why, you are at a party. Well now, don’t let’s march. We’ll play something else, till Ezekiel comes. I know,” she clapped her hands and spun around once or twice in the middle of the floor.
Joel threw down the broom wrathfully.
“You must hang it up first,” said Polly, coming out of her spin.
“I don’t want any party,” declared Joel, “not a single snitch of one.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” said Polly, running up to him. “Hang up the broom, Joel—that’s a good boy. I’ve thought of something just too splendid for anything.”