Davie clutched the basket with trembling fingers and a wild despair that it was now too late to consider bushes.
“You ben down to my house, I know.” Old Man Peters’s little eyes gleamed fiercely. “Well, what you got in that basket?” pointing to it.
“It’s—it’s—”
“It’s—it’s— Didn’t I tell you to stop hemmin’ an’ hawin’, you Pepper Boy! I’ll give you somethin’ to hem an’ haw for pretty soon, ef you don’t look out.” He broke off a stick from the scrub oak.
Davie clutched the old string tighter yet.
“Let’s see,” said Old Man Peters, drawing close to poke up a corner of the coat with the stick.
“You mustn’t,” said Davie, drawing back, and putting one hand over the top of the basket.
“Mustn’t,” roared Old Man Peters, shaking the stick at him.
“No,” said Davie. “You mustn’t,” and he tried to edge off farther; but the stick came down across his little calico blouse.
“I’ll give you somethin’ to make you see that you can’t say ‘mustn’t’ to me,” said Mr. Peters, bringing the stick down again. “There, you take that!”