“But it eats marmalade,” pleaded William. “The stag beetle does. I know it does. The marmalade gets a little less every day.”
“Because it’s soaking into the wood,” said Mrs. Brown sternly. “That’s why. I don’t know why you do such things, William!”
“But they’re doing no harm,” said William. “They’re friends of mine. They know me. The stag beetle does anyway and the others will soon. I’m teaching the stag beetle tricks.... Honest, it knows me and it knows its name. Call ‘Albert’ to it and see if it moves.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort, William. Take the creatures out at once. I shall have to scrub the drawers and have everything washed. You’ve got marmalade and crumbs all over your socks and handkerchiefs.”
“Well, I moved ’em right away when I put them in. They’ve sort of spread back.”
“Why ever didn’t you keep the things outside?”
“I wanted to have ’em and play with ’em at nights an’ mornin’s.”
“And here’s one of them dead!”
“I hope it didn’t die of anythin’ catchin’,” said William anxiously. “I shun’t like Albert to get anythin’. There’s no reason for ’em to die. They’ve got plenty of food an’ plenty of room to play about in an’ air gets in through the keyhole.”
“Take them away!”