Over March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November they careered without a pause to view what success they had achieved, stumbling, kicking, making the most awful noise; then Ted did not take December quickly enough—Denis, unable to stop himself, with a yell collided into him, and over they went, squashing December as flat as the proverbial pancake. They lay, kicking, struggling, all muddled up.
"Give us a hand!" shouted Denis. "Here, you idiot, you're hanging on to my rug!"
"I'm not! A pin's digging into my calf!"
"I tell you, you have got hold of my rug!"
"I haven't! It's my shawl you're pulling at."
"Nell, I'll disown you as my twin forever if you don't come and separate this fool from me!"
Ted groaned dismally. "There's another pin—in my shoulder!"
"Pooh, I've got 'em digging into me everywhere! I'm the latest thing in pin-cushions! Nell O'Brien, when at the post mortem the verdict is 'Death due to an overdose of pins,' you'll repent, perhaps—"
"O.B., will you let that bit of shawl go? Or tear off the corner you've taken such a fancy to!"
"Oh, no, it's Aunt Kezia's," squealed Molly, "oh—do be careful!"