Alan sat in
front of them, placidly rocking to and fro, astride the cradle
that he had dragged out into the middle of the floor, to serve as
an easy-chair.
"Hurry up, Polyanthus," he remarked encouragingly. "These girls
are scolding me like everything, and I want you to come and fight
for me."
"Do help us to send him off, Polly," his sister begged. "He
insisted on coming up here with us, even after I told him we
didn't want him."
"Why don't you go out and play ball with the other boys, Alan?"
urged Jean.
"Now, Jean, that's too bad!" said Polly, filled with righteous
indignation. "It's not fair to twit Alan because there are some
things he can't do."
"Let him be," said Florence; "he'll get so tired of it at the end
of ten minutes, that nothing would tempt him to stay here."
"Good for you, Florence; you're a trump," returned Alan. "I
promise you, I won't so much as speak, if you'll let me stay; but
it's awfully dull doing nothing, and mother's bound I shan't play
ball. You wouldn't catch me here, if I could."
"Ungrateful wretch!" exclaimed Polly, while Jean added,--
"No danger of your saying anything! You'll be sound asleep before
we've read a page."
"What's the use of reading it, then?" was Alan's pertinent
question.
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