Gilly laughed. “I don’t forgive ’em ’cause they’re big! If I didn’t dare hit Billy, I could call him awful names, and run out my tongue at him; couldn’t I? Guess he won’t try to thrash me again!”
“What did you call him?” asked Jimmy, much interested.
“‘Billee! Billee!’ says I, as loud as I could screech; ‘Billee, you’re an old monkey-wrench!’ says I.”
“Why!” exclaimed Jimmy, struck by Gilly’s boldness. “Why-ee! I’ve had some o’ those big boys call me a monkey; that’s bad enough!”
“Yes; but I said monkey-wrench,” said Gilly proudly.
“I was the one that told him the word!” cried Dick, eager to share in the praise; “it’s a word they have in New York.”
Not one of the three little boys thought of asking, “What is a monkey-wrench?” It sounded like something too bad to be talked about.
“What’s that queer noise?” asked Dick.
It was John laughing all by himself in the stall at what the boys were saying. But when Jimmy peeped through the slats of the stall at the pretty chocolate-and-white cow, John stood there looking as solemn as an owl.