"Isn't it? Tib was my dog. If he hadn't been my dog Papa wouldn't have teased him, and Mamma wouldn't have sent him back to Aunt Charlotte, and Aunt Charlotte wouldn't have let him be run over."
"Yes. But what did you say to your Papa?"
"I said I wish Tib had bitten him. So I do. And Mark said it would have served him jolly well right."
"So it would," said Mark.
Roddy had turned his back on them. Nobody was taking any notice of him; so he sang aloud to himself the song he was forbidden to sing:
"John Brown's body lies a-rotting in his grave,
John Brown's body lies a-rotting in his grave—"
The song seemed to burst out of Roddy's beautiful white face; his pink lips twirled and tilted; his golden curls bobbed and nodded to the tune.
"John Brown's body lies a-rotting in his grave,
As we go marching on!"
"When I grow up," said Dank, "I'll kill Papa for killing Tibby. I'll bore holes in his face with Mark's gimlet. I'll cut pieces out of him. I'll get the matches and set fire to his beard. I'll—I'll hurt him."
"I don't think I shall," said Mark. "But if I do I shan't kick up a silly row about it first."