Her happiness in Tommy’s regeneration was short-lived. Snatching his hand away, “Get me some o’ that stuff, Miss Margaret,” he shouted, “get me some o’ that stuff for a whistle.”
“What stuff?”
“Suckymores, suckymores for a whistle.”
They were still driving down the steep, rugged road, so Miss Margaret turned Jimmy to the grass of the hedge-bank and Miss Dorothea, Ruthie and Tommy got out. Miss Dorothea was able to break off some grand sycamore twigs for whistles, enough for all the boys in Miss Lavinia’s school.
“Whoa, Jimmy; steady, Jimmy!” and Miss Margaret pulled hard at the right rein, only just saving Tommy from being knocked down by the wheel and run over.
Tommy tried to look natural and unconcerned, but Miss Dorothea had seen the cause of Jimmy’s start. Tommy had picked up a hazel switch and, thinking himself unobserved, had hit the pony sharply on the flank.
It seemed quite useless to reprove him any more, so Miss Margaret sternly ordered him to return to the gingle. This he obstinately refused to do. He was goin’ to walk for a bit, he was goin’ to run on behind, he was. When Miss Dorothea walked towards him he ran away. He was literally lifted into the gingle, and then sat in Miss Dorothea’s place, refusing to move, as he wished to be next to Ruthie. Ruthie herself explained to him that in that way the balance would be all wrong, but he still remained obdurate. Once more he was lifted up and put into his proper place.
Then, although Miss Margaret took the reins, she did not drive on. Instead, “Miss Dorothea,” she said, “shall we go on to Polderry, or shall we drive straight back home?”
“Oh, Miss Margaret,” pleaded Ruthie, “please, please, go on! don’t ee go home. Tommy will be a good boy, won’t ee now, Tommy?”