"There's my engine, an' my books. You can play with them," he said coldly to Cuthbert. "Let's go and play in the garden, you and me, Joan." But Joan shook her head.
"I don't thuppoth the'd care to go out without me," said Cuthbert airily. "I'll go with you. Thith boy can play here if he liketh."
And William, artist in vituperation as he was, could think of no response.
He followed them into the garden, and there came upon him a wild determination to show his superiority.
"You can't climb that tree," he began.
"I can," said Cuthbert sweetly.
"Well, climb it then," grimly.
"No, I don't want to get my thingth all methed. I can climb it, but you can't. He can't climb it, Joan, he'th trying to pretend he can climb it when he can't. He knowth I can climb it, but I don't want to get my thingth methed."
Joan smiled admiringly at Cuthbert.
"I'll show you," said William desperately. "I'll just show you."