David’s face worked dreadfully. “I ain’t—and I won’t tell you any story.” He got off from the bed and marched to the stairs.
“Oh, you must,” cried Joel in alarm. A bad story was better than none. “You promised, and you’ve got to, or I’ll call Mamsie, and tell her.” He tossed off the old comforter again.
“Don’t call Mamsie,” cried Davie, hurrying back.
“All right,” said Joel. Then he snuggled down in the bed, and drew the long-suffering bed-clothes up so that only his ears were sticking out. “Go on.”
“Well,” said David, climbing on the foot of the bed again and beginning very slowly, “Once there was—”
“Don’t say that again,” commanded Joel, sticking up his face from the folds of the comforter.
“A boy,” said David hurriedly.
“How big was he?” asked Joel with faint interest. But it was just as well to get the age settled on in the beginning.
“Oh, about as big as—” David hesitated.
“Have him as big as me,” said Joel, “and his arms as big,” he thrust out one, “and his legs just as exactly as big,” and he stuck out his foot.