"I declare! You seem to take an intense interest in what I am going to say; here I've been waiting all afternoon to find you, and can't get in a word edgewise."
Dave rubbed his eyes, and looked as if he didn't hear a word. "Do you know, Sam," he drawled, "this brook always makes me think of Bryant's poem, 'The Green River.'
"'Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light
And clear the depths where its eddies play
And dimples deepen and whirl away.'
Ever read it, Sam? I'd advise you to; then it goes on like this:
"'And the plane tree's speckled arms o'ershoot—'"
"Well, Dave Brandon, I've a good mind not to tell you."
"Then don't," said the stout boy, in pretended anger.