when Willy, with his pantaloons tucked up to his knees, and his head dripping with water, rushed wildly into the room.
"My medal's gone! Gid Noonin stole it!"
"My son! What do you mean?"
"Yes, ma'am; Gid Noonin stole it! Made me go in swimming, and then he stole it!"
"Gideon Noonin?" said Mrs. Parlin, with a meaning glance. "That boy? Made you go swimming, my son?"
Willy hung his head.
"Yes, ma'am! Marched me off down to the brook pickaback,—he did!"
"Poor, little baby!" said Mrs. Parlin, in the soft, pitiful tone she would have used to an infant. "Poor little baby!"
Willy's head sank lower yet, and the blush of shame crept into his cheeks.
"Why, mother, he's as strong's a moose; he could most lift you!"