“Sandy, you give me that book, or you’ll be sorry. It’s mine.”
“Prove it then.”
A tussle, a tug, a tremendous pull; back and forth, a fierce wrestle; a scramble and sprawl over the hay; a whoop of triumph from Hilda as on the edge of the wagon, with Sandy temporarily restrained by the hay under which she had buried him, she paused a second ere she dropped to the ground almost into the arms of the highly-edified Cheerio.
Sandy at last freed from his prison of hay was upon her tracks, and with a blood-curdling yell of vengeance he leaped to the ground beside her.
“You gimme that book!”
At the sight of Cheerio, Hilda’s clasp of the book had relaxed and it was therefore a cinch for the attacking Sandy to seize and regain possession of the disputed treasure. From the boy to the girl the quizzical glance of the Englishman turned.
“I s-say, old man, b-believe that’s m-my book, d’you know.”
“Then she mus’ve swiped it, ’cause Viper found it in the hay loft and that’s where she always hides to read, so Dad won’t ketch her.”
Hilda had turned first white and then rosily red. She felt that her face was scorching and smarting tears bit at her eyelids waiting to drop. One indeed did roll down the round sun-burnt cheek and splashed visibly upon her hand right before the now thoroughly concerned Cheerio. His face stiffened sternly as he looked at Sandy, and reaching over he recovered his book. Quietly he extended it to Hilda. Sandy thereupon pressed his claim in loud and emphatic language.
“That ain’t fair. She’s just turnin’ on her old water-works so’s to make you give her the book. It ain’t fair. I’m just up to that part where Porthos and——”