“Well, ’cross lots is just prime!” exclaimed Joel lustily; “it’s to jump and race and tear and holler over the grass and the corn, and through folks’ orchards, and over the stone walls, lickety split—whoop-la!”
He jumped up, and began prancing through an imaginary race; down the long apartment, steering clear of the oaken furniture and damask furnishings, with a keen eye for the distance.
“Come on, Dave,” he shouted over his shoulder, “let’s show them what it’s like;” while the Whitney boys sat transfixed with longing at every step.
“No, you don’t, Joe,” commanded Ben sharply, “in the house. Stop this minute;” and little Davie said quietly, “We ought to wait till we get out-of-doors.”
“Well, come on out now, then,” cried Joel, whirling around in his tracks, and looking like a race-horse held up against his will.
“Why, Polly’s telling about how our old gray goose bit Sally Brown,” said David, getting closer to Polly; “we can’t now, Joey.”
“I don’t want to hear about Sally Brown,” grumbled Joel, very much out of sorts; “and I wish the old gray goose had bit her worse, I do.”
“O Joey!” reproved Polly; “think how good Deacon Brown was to us, and Mrs. Brown too.”
“Well, Sally wasn’t,” said Joel shamefacedly, digging his toes into the soft carpet. “She bit me once, and scratched my face.”
“Well, then, I suppose you were bad to her,” said Ben coolly. “So come back, Joe, and don’t interrupt this story again. Besides, it’s raining like everything.”