“Goodness me, dear!” exclaimed Mr. King. “There, there, Phronsie child, don’t cry.”
At the word “cry” Joel’s hand fell helplessly down from Dick’s mouth, and he stood quite still while little Dick slid out from under his arm triumphantly.
“If you do speak, you’ll be a mean little beggar, Dick Whitney,” cried Van, flying over the stairs, “and Polly Pepper won’t ever tell you a story in all this world again.”
At these words Dick closed his mouth, and concluded not to say what was on the tip of his tongue.
“And I was just as bad as Joel, Grandpapa,” went on Van, crowding up to the old gentleman’s side; “for I said bad things about”—
“Ugh!” exclaimed Joel, turning on him suddenly, “don’t let him tell, Grandpapa. Make him stop.”
“Phronsie,” said old Mr. King, turning to her very much puzzled, “I can’t make anything out of these boys; they’re in a bad way. You come with me, child;” and he seized her little hand, and moved a step or two away. But Phronsie gently pulled him back.
“I think I ought to stay here, Grandpapa,” she said, regarding the boys gravely, while the tears went slowly over her round cheeks.
“Nonsense, child; you can’t do them any good. If they want to pound each other’s heads they’ll do it; and I think myself it might be a good dose for them both.”
“But they ought not to, Grandpapa,” said Phronsie in distress. “Polly wouldn’t like it.”