"There's my engine, an' my books. You can play with them," he said
coldly to Cuthbert. "Let's go and play in the garden, you and me,
Joan." But Joan shook her head.

"I don't thuppoth the'd care to go out without me," said Cuthbert
airily. "_I'll_ go with you. Thith boy can play here if he liketh."

And William, artist in vituperation as he was, could think of no
response.

He followed them into the garden, and there came upon him a wild
determination to show his superiority.

"You can't climb that tree," he began.

"I can," said Cuthbert sweetly.

"Well, _climb_ it then," grimly.

"No, I don't want to get my thingth all methed. I _can_ climb it, but
you can't. He can't climb it, Joan, he'th trying to pretend he can
climb it when he can't. He knowth I can climb it, but I don't want to
get my thingth methed."

Joan smiled admiringly at Cuthbert.

"I'll _show_ you," said William desperately. "I'll just _show_ you."

He showed them.