“I’m not hurt,” he said.
Joel, who had been shaking with terror, now laughed till his little white teeth shone. “They’re all in your hair, Dave,” he said. “I’ll get ’em out,” pawing the soft light waves, in which the little dried wisps were sticking.
“You won’t tell Mamsie I cried,” said Davie, looking up anxiously.
“I don’t know,” said Joel. Then he stopped picking the leaves out of the soft hair. “If you won’t tell her that I did,” he began.
“Oh, I won’t—I won’t,” promised David eagerly, “not a single bit of it, Joel.”
“We both cried, and we both won’t tell,” decided Joel in a matter-of-fact way.
“And Mamsie will worry if we don’t get home,” said Davie, “and we mustn’t want Polly to come back.” He twisted his small hands together, as he regarded Joel nervously.
“But I do want Polly to come back,” declared Joel obstinately, shaking his head.
“It will make Mamsie sick.” Davie could think of nothing better to say, so he repeated it in a despairing voice, “It will make Mamsie sick.”
Joel scuffed the heap of dry leaves with his rusty little shoes—then he blurted out. “I don’t want my Mamsie to be sick,” he said slowly.