“I don’t care!” said a dogged voice. “Bother your rivers! bother your rivers! bother your rivers!”
The owner of the voice sat on the table and hummed fiercely. In the stress of mental anguish caused by his position, Henry made a miscalculation, and in turning bumped the table heavily with his head.
“Ough!” said the small girl breathlessly.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Henry, popping up humbly; “I won’t hurt you.”
“Hoo!” said the small girl in a flutter; “a boy!”
Henry rose and seated himself respectfully, coughing confusedly, as he saw the small girl’s gaze riveted on his pockets.
“What have you got in your pockets?” she asked.
“Apples,” said Henry softly. “I bought ’em in the town.”
The small girl extended her hand, and accepting a couple, inspected them carefully.
“You’re a bad, wicked boy!” she said seriously as she bit into one. “You’ll get it when Miss Dimchurch comes!”