“Whick—oh, dear me!” exploded Joel.
“Yes; all the beasts liked mince-pie too, every single one of all those sixteen hundred beasts.”
“Were there sixteen hundred of ’em?” cried little David with flaming cheeks, and pushing up close to her work.
“Yes,” said Polly recklessly. “Adolphus’s father had sixteen hundred wild beasts in his cave, and”—
“Make it some more,” cried Joel. “Make him have eighteen hundred, Polly, do.”
“No,” said Polly firmly; “he hadn’t a single one more than sixteen hundred, not a single one, Joe.”
“Well, go on,” said Joel.
“But the beasts couldn’t get any mince-pie, ever,” said Polly, hurrying on.
“Why?” broke in both of the boys.
“Because Adolphus’s mother said that she couldn’t spend the time to bake mince-pies for so many beasts and beastesses, because you see, all the animals would have to have a pie apiece. And Adolphus used to go out into the front yard, and eat his pie; and all the creatures would come out of their cave, and stand in their yard, and lick their chops, and wish they had some.”