"You see, if they don't like it," said Tom, digging his knife savagely
into the railing, "they have a chance to kick up their heels and
unsettle that heavy party."
"O dear me!" exclaimed Phronsie, in great distress, "that would hurt
the poor woman, Tom."
"Well, it shows that the donkey likes it," said Tom, with a laugh,
"because he doesn't kick up his heels."
"And so," ran on Tom, "why, we mustn't worry, you and I, if the donkey
doesn't. Just think,"--he made a fine diversion by pointing with his
knife-blade up to the slender spire of the Matterhorn--"we're going up
on a little jaunt to-morrow, to look into that fellow's face."
Phronsie got out of her chair to come and stand by his side. "I like
that white needle," she said, with a gleeful smile. "Polly said it was
nice, and I like it."
"I should say it was," declared Tom, with a bob of his head. "Phronsie,
I'd give, I don't know what, if I could climb up there." He thrust his
knife once more into the railing, where it stuck fast.
"Don't." begged Phronsie, her hand on his sleeve, "go up that big white
needle, Tom."
"No, I won't; it's safe to promise that," he said grimly, with a little
laugh. "Good reason why; because I can't. The little mother wouldn't
sleep nights just to think of it, and I promised the granddaddy that I
wouldn't so much as think of it, and here I am breaking my word; but I
can't help it.
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