But Limby cared nothing about a greasy frock, not he—he was used enough to that; and therefore roared out more lustily for a ride on the mutton.
“Did you ever know such a child? What a dear, determined spirit!”
“He is a child of an uncommon mind,” said his mother. “Limby, dear—Limby, dear—silence! silence!”
The truth was, Limby made such a roaring, that neither father or mother could get their dinners, and scarcely knew whether they were eating beef or mutton.
“It is impossible to let him ride on the mutton,” said his father: “quite impossible!”
“Well, but you might just put him astride the dish, just to satisfy him; you can take care his legs or clothes do not go into the gravy.”
“Anything for a quiet life,” said the father. “What does Limby want?—Limby ride?”
“Limby on bone!—Limby on meat!”
“Shall I put him across?” said Mr. Lumpy.
“Just for one moment,” said his mamma: “it won’t hurt the mutton.”