'He' (jerking his head at the other) 'and me was running races.'

'Tommy said he could beat me,' put in the other.

'Now, I wonder what will make you two silly lads mind, and not
run races again with a pitcher of milk between you,' said the
minister, as if musing. 'I might flog you, and so save mammy the
trouble; for I dare say she'll do it if I don't.' The fresh burst
of whimpering from both showed the probability of this.

'Or I might take you to the Hope Farm, and give you some more
milk; but then you'd be running races again, and my milk would
follow that to the ground, and make another white pool. I think
the flogging would be best--don't you?'

'We would never run races no more,' said the elder of the two.

'Then you'd not be boys; you'd be angels.'

'No, we shouldn't.'

'Why not?'

They looked into each other's eyes for an answer to this puzzling
question. At length, one said, 'Angels is dead folk.'

'Come; we'll not get too deep into theology. What do you think of
my lending you a tin can with a lid to carry the milk home in?
That would not break, at any rate; though I would not answer for
the milk not spilling if you ran races. That's it!'