"I say he hasn't."
"And I say he has," you screamed, and threw the watering-can straight at the Jones boy. It struck the fence and the water splashed all over him so that he retreated to the road. There in a rage he hurled stones at you.
"Your—father—hasn't—got—any— store—any—more—old—Patchy-pants— old—Patchy-pants—old—"
And then suddenly the Jones boy fled, and when you looked around there was Father standing behind you by the geraniums.
"Never mind what the Jones boy says," he told you, and he was not angry with you for throwing the watering-can. The little green spout of it was broken when you picked it up, but Father said he would buy you a new one.
"To-morrow, Father?"
"No, not to-morrow—some day."
You and Lizbeth, tumbling down-stairs to breakfast, found Father sitting before the fire.
"Father!" you cried, astonished, for it was not Sunday, and though you ran to him he did not hear you till you pounced upon him in his chair.
"Oh, Father," you said, joyfully, "are you going to stay home and play with us all day?"