“Well, and what are the odds?” asked Jack, with a coolness that curdled Marygold’s blood, “much better that you should die like a man—”
“But I ain’t a man yet and I don’t want to die like one,” yelled Hubert, who was being prodded up the tree now by both his brothers.
“You’re wicked, bad boys,” cried Marygold, “I’ll deliver you, Hubert, I will deliver you.”
Therewith she flew upon Phil and hanging all her weight upon his arm, strove to disable him from tormenting Hubert any further.
“I do wish a big ogre would come now and gobble you up,” she gasped.
Then as the boys still persisted that Hubert must reach the perilous point first indicated, Marygold grew quite desperate.
“Please, please don’t break his pore little neck,” she pleaded. There was such real horror in her voice, she looked so pitiful with her brilliant blue eyes brimming over with tears, that the sight of her face helped Hubert quite as effectually as any ogre might have done. For it did gain Hubert’s welcome “deliverance.”
And Marygold gained something further still. For when she suggested that as it had got cooler now, they might all have a really nice game before tea time, Jack and Phil actually consented to “give the infants a turn,” and graciously permitted them to choose the game they would play.
“Oh! ogres, ogres!” they cried, “for this wood will be just beautiful.”
“There’ll be such heaps of room, you know,” added Marygold, “for the little innocents to play at gaffering strawberries and picking up sticks.”