"Now, get
me some lickle fishes, an' tadpoles an' water sings," he went on
cheerfully.
William turned round from his blackberry-bush.
"Well, I won't," he said decidedly. "I've had enough!"
"You've had 'nuff brekfust," said Thomas sternly. "I've found a
lickle tin for the sings, so be _kick_. Oo, here's a fly! A green fly!
It's sittin' on my finger. Does it like me 'cause it's sittin' on my
finger?"
"No," said William, turning a purple-stained countenance round
scornfully.
It must be nearly night. He didn't want to be too hard on them, to
make his mother ill or anything. He wanted to be as kind as possible.
He'd forgive them at once when he got home. He'd ask for one or two
things he wanted, as well as the new bugle. A new penknife, and an
engine with a real boiler.
"Waffor does it not like me?" persisted Thomas.
William was silent. Question and questioner were beneath contempt.
"Waffor does it not like me?" he shouted stridently.
"Flies don't like people, silly."
"Waffor not?" retorted Thomas.
"They don't know anything about them."
"Well, I'll _tell_ it about me. My name's Thomas," he said to the fly
politely. "Now does it like me?"
William groaned. But the fly had now vanished, and Thomas once more
grew impatient.
"Come _on_!" he said. "Come on an' find sings for me."
William's manly spirit was by this time so far broken that he followed
his new acquaintance to a neighbouring pond, growling threateningly
but impotently.
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