But, quick as his legs were, they were not quick enough for that. Pollio Pitcher was always close behind him: he couldn’t get away from Pollio Pitcher.
“Seems to me I never saw him act so,” said Hop-clover, puffing for breath as he darted off, and rolled over and over in the grass. “I’m getting real lame, running round so long; and I’m afraid we sha’n’t get back before supper.”
You must pardon Hop-clover for thinking a good deal about her supper. Perhaps you would think as much about it as she did, if you were in the habit of feeling hungry half the time.
“Well, we’ll go back now if Pollio will,” said Posy, though she wanted to pick flowers. “Come, Pollio.”
“Oh, go ’long! I’ll come when I get ready,” said he, climbing a tree, and dangling from a limb.
They went; and, the moment they were out of hearing, he began to make strange noises,—hooting, barking, crowing, groaning. He thought it would be some relief, but it wasn’t: there was only one way to obtain relief, and that was to tell Mr. Littlefield the truth.
“What, tell him I broke his chaise? I needn’t, and I sha’n’t! He won’t like me any more if I do. He doesn’t like me much now, ’cause I laughed in meeting.”
Pollio writhed and twisted. If the squirrels and tree-toads had stopped to watch him, they would have thought he was crazy. He talked aloud too; but he spoke his bad thoughts, and kept his good thoughts to himself.
“I won’t tell! Catch me telling! Do I want him to think my father’s got a ‘youngster’ for a boy?”
Then he pulled up a tuft of grass, and threw it at a toad.