"Yes," said the other, tilting his round chin. He drew his property suddenly behind him as if it were menaced. "Yes," he repeated, "it's mine."
"Well, le' me play wif it?" said the wandering baby, with a trembling note of desire in his voice.
"No," cried the pretty child with determined lips. "It's mine. My ma-ma buyed it."
"Well, tan't I play wif it?" His voice was a sob. He stretched forth little covetous hands.
"No," the pretty child continued to repeat. "No, it's mine."
"Well, I want to play wif it," wailed the other. A sudden fierce frown mantled his baby face. He clenched his fat hands and advanced with a formidable gesture. He looked some wee battler in a war.
"It's mine! It's mine," cried the pretty child, his voice in the treble of outraged rights.
"I want it," roared the wanderer.
"It's mine! It's mine!"