“You can’t jump over that river, Tom,” says Pat.
“Perhaps not,” replies Tom: “I never tried such a jump, because my mother tells me never to go where I am likely to tumble into the water.”
“Oh, your mother’s a muff!” cries Pat.
“Pat,” says Tom, flushing with indignation and confronting his friend, “don’t you ever say that again, else the friendship between you and me will come to an end. I know you don’t really mean what you say; but I won’t allow you to speak disrespectfully of my mother.”
“Well, I won’t,” says Pat, “but you’re a muff, anyhow.”
“Perhaps I am,” replies Tom.
“Of course you are, because you’re afraid to jump over that river, and I’m not. So here goes.”
Pat thereupon jumps the river (he is a splendid leaper), and Tom hesitates.
“Come along, Tom; don’t be a hen.”
Tom gives way, alas! to a disobedient impulse, and dashing at the leap comes to the edge, when he finds, somehow, that he has not got the proper foot first for the spring—almost every boy knows the feeling I allude to; his heart fails, and he balks.