“I haven’t seen him since mother left,” replied Barbara. “Then I sent him to the sand-pile. I haven’t an idea where he is.”
“You told him he couldn’t go to a picnic,” said David, dreamily.
“Why, no, I didn’t.”
“But you did, Barbara. He came and knocked on your door while you were writing, and told you he wanted to go. And you said no. Then he hollered that he thought you were”—David hesitated delicately over the epithet—“a mean old thing; that he hadn’t asked you to let him have a picnic before since mother had left. And you told him to run away,—that you were busy.”
“Did I?” asked Barbara, trying to remember. She had a faint recollection of such an interruption, but she was never sure of what happened during the hours which she spent in the throes of authorship. “How long ago was it?”
“’Bout eleven o’clock.”
Barbara looked worried. “I can’t think where he could have gone,” she said. “Have you looked everywhere in the house?”
“Everywhere we could think of,” responded Jack. “Don’t worry, Barb; he’ll show up as soon as he gets hungry. Disappearance is his long suit.”
“Does he often run away like this?”
“Every time the spirit moves him. Not even a letter-press could keep him down when the wanderlust seizes him. Sometimes he is gone for hours. Punishment doesn’t seem to do him much good, either, though I must say he never gets enough of it to make any impression. If he were mine, I should test the magic power of a willow switch.”