This was too much for Pollio. Perhaps they were Quaker flies, and had come out of Mr. Littlefield’s pocket; and, when he thought of that, he giggled outright.
It was too bad, for he was generally a very well-behaved boy in church. He could not believe his own ears. Posy could not believe hers, either, though she blushed crimson, and hid behind Hop-clover. If he had only waited one minute! The Quakers were shaking hands all round for good-by: Quaker meeting was done!
Pollio rushed out in an agony of shame; but Mr. Littlefield stopped him in the entry, by laying his hand kindly on his shoulder.
“I suppose thee got pretty tired, Napoleon. Thee isn’t used to our kind of meetings.”
Oh, to think the man should speak to him again! Pollio had supposed he was too bad to be noticed.
Posy peeped up at him from under her parasol, and he saw her face was covered with blushes. Hop-clover gave him a pitying look as she walked off with Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield; and Pollio knew she never would say again she wished she had a brother like him.
I suppose he turned fifty somersets after dinner. He always turned them when he was happy, and still more when he was sad.
“There is something about that little boy that makes me want to laugh,” said Dorothy to John. “I don’t know whether it’s his straight hair, or his black eyes, or the way he has of standing on his head.”
“He is the limberest little chap I ever saw,” said John: “and I can’t keep my face straight when he quirks himself up in such shapes; but I wish I could, for he is a great rogue, and bothers me by meddling.”