“Oh, oh!” cried Phronsie, dropping needle and scissors, and the little sheer lawn bit destined to adorn Mamsie’s head, the lace trailing off by itself across the old kitchen floor, as she sprang to her feet. “How can you, King?”
“Stop pulling all the hair out of my Mamsie’s cushion, Barby,” screamed King-Fisher, very red in the face. “Look at that, now! I’ll bite you, if you don’t stop!”
“O King!” Phronsie seized his arm, as he began to set his white teeth on the little fat arm.
Barby sat still in the middle of the floor, both hands grasped tightly around the old calico cushion, which she huddled close to her small bosom. “Go ’way!” she commanded, her blue eyes flashing at him from her tangle of brown hair. “Go right ’way, bad, naughty boy!”
“I’ll take care of him. There, now, see if you come biting round here, Mister King!” The other figure deserted the old hair cushion pulled out of the rocking-chair, and, throwing itself on the unsuspecting King, rolled over and over, pommelling and puffing furiously.
“O children, children!” cried Phronsie in great dismay. Just then the door opened, and in walked old Mr. King, bending his handsome white head to clear the doorway.
“Well—well—well! this is beautiful upon my word!” Then he burst out laughing.
“O Grandpapa!” exclaimed Phronsie, clasping her hands in distress, “this is so very dreadful! Do make them stop!”
“Nonsense! Let them alone,” said the old gentleman, in the midst of his laugh. “I don’t doubt King-Fisher has been putting on airs, and Polly’s boy is aching to take it out of him. That’s right, Elyot, give it to him! I dare say he deserves it all, every bit.”
“Grandpapa,” begged Phronsie, hurrying up to clasp his arm entreatingly, “do please make them stop. They’re in the little brown house, Grandpapa; only just think, the little brown house. Please make them stop!”