“And I,” said Phronsie putting out a little hand; “I wish I had some too, Polly, I do.”
“Well, we haven’t any of us got any,” said Polly. “But I’ll tell you all about Johnny’s. Sit still, Pet, you joggle me so I can’t sew straight; and these seams must be done before Mamsie gets home, else she’ll sit up to-night to do ’em.”
Polly was stitching away on one of the sacks that Mrs. Pepper had promised Mr. Atkins she would take down to the store on the morrow, her needle rushing in and out briskly; and she glanced up at the old clock. “Oh, dear me! if I don’t hurry, I sha’n’t get to the time when Johnny’s little tin soldiers ran.”
“Oh—whoppity—la!” screamed Joel in a transport, forgetting how his mouth watered for the pink-topped cakes; “tell about the soldiers, Polly; tell about them.”
“Well, I can’t if you keep interrupting me all the time, Joel,” said Polly; “I was just going to, when you stopped me about the cakes.”
“That’s just it,” said Ben over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t tell him a single thing, if he goes on like that. Take my advice, Polly, and don’t promise him another story.”
But Polly was already launched into her gayest and best narration; and Joel slipped off from his chair-edge to the floor, where he snuggled up against her feet, his head on her knees, Phronsie longing to do the same thing; but remembering what Polly had said about sewing Mamsie’s seams, she sat up very straight in her chair, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Did Johnny have tin soldiers too?” asked David, in an awe-struck tone.
“Of course, child,” said Polly, with a little laugh. “Why, he had a big house full of just everything.”