moment. Then he flung himself flat on the ground and roared.

"He's worse agin," said Mr. Biggs, in great distress. "I guess
he wants pep'mint. My mother used to give me that when I'd et
green apples."

But Polly shook her head. "He can't go, Mr. Biggs," she said;
"but Davie can."

At this little Davie gave a squeal of joy, and took three steps
down the grass plot, but stopped suddenly.

"All right," said Mr. Biggs, heartily. "Come on, boy; I must be
off. It's a good piece down to Mis' Pettingill's. And she always
wants me to take time a-weighin' her rags." And he began to
lumber off.

"I don't want to go if Joel can't," said Davie, slowly, and
turning his back to the red rag-wagon waiting out in the road.
He twisted his fingers hard, and kept saying, "No, I don't want
to go, Polly, if Joel can't."

"All right, Davie," said Polly, beginning to cuddle him; "only
you must remember, Mr. Biggs won't go again this summer out to
Mrs. Pettingill's, most likely."

Davie shook his head again, and twisted his fingers worse than
ever. "I don't want to go if Joel can't," he said, while Joel
roared harder still, if that were possible. So Polly had to run
down the grassy slope to overtake Mr. Biggs, who was now getting