Papa shook his head at Teddy, and went on questioning Posy, who sat on his knee.
“Did my little girl whisper in school?”
“Yes, sir: once or twice or three.”
“Oh my! I should think”—
“Hush, Teddy! Did you carry your slate, Pollio?”
“Yes, sir; and I can make pictures better’n any of ’em.”
His father presumed this was true; for Pollio’s drawings were rather remarkable for a small child.
“And I draw horses for the fellow that sits with me. He’s a jolly boy,—fires ’tatoes out of a gun.”
“Well, the girl with me hops lame,” said Posy, determined not to be outdone by Pollio. “She’s a hypocrite.”