“There was—”
“You said that before.”
“I know it. Well, there was—”
“Stop saying there was,” cried Joel crossly.
“But there really was,” insisted David, feeling sure that in another moment he should certainly jump off from the bed, and fly over the stairs.
“Well, go on. Was what?” roared Joel, flinging back the comforter.
“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” cried David, sliding along on the bed, still feeling that he would rather do the tucking up than to tackle the story. “Mamsie said you must keep the clothes up,” and he pulled the comforter up around Joel’s neck.
“Go away,” cried Joel, “and you can’t tell a story any more than—than—an old hopper-toad.”
“I’m not a hopper-toad,” cried David, a little pink flush coming over his face.
“Yes, you are, Dave Pepper, a bad old hopper-toad,” insisted Joel vindictively, “and you don’t know any story, you old hopper-toad, you!”