"What'th that?" he said.
There were sounds of clambering feet on the other side of the wall,
then William's grimy countenance appeared.
"Hello, Joan!" he said, ignoring the stranger.
Joan's eyes brightened.
"Come and play with us, William," she begged.
"We don't want dirty little boyth," murmured Cuthbert fastidiously.
William could not, with justice, have objected to the epithet. He had
spent the last half-hour climbing on to the rafters of the disused
coach-house, and dust and cobwebs adorned his face and hair.
"He's _always_ like that," explained Joan, carelessly.
By this time William had thought of a suitable rejoinder.
"All right," he jeered, "don't look at me then. Go on tellin' fairy
_thorieth_."
Cuthbert flushed angrily.
"You're a nathty rude little boy," he said. "I'll tell my mother."
Thus war was declared.
He came to tea the next day. Not all William's pleading could persuade
his mother to cancel the invitation.
"Well," said William darkly, "wait till you've _seen_ him, that's all.
Wait till you've heard him _speakin'_. He can't talk even. He can't
_play_. He tells fairy stories. He don't like _dirt_. He's got long
hair an' a funny long coat. He's _awful_, I tell you. I don't _want_
to have him to tea. I don't want to be washed an' all just because
_he's_ comin' to tea."
But as usual William's eloquence availed nothing.
Several people came to tea that afternoon, and there was a sudden
silence when Mrs.
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