no more noise
than you can help." This referred to a game very popular with the
children since Dave's experience as a patient. It promised soon to be
the only record of his injuries, as witness his gymnastics of this
morning.

But he was getting to be such a big boy now--seven, last birthday--that
playing at games was becoming a mere concession to Dolly's tender youth.
Old Mrs. Prichard's thin soprano had an appeal to this effect in it--on
Dave's behalf--as she said: "Oh, but the dear child may tell me, please,
all about the truck and some more things, too, before he goes to play
with Dolly. He has always such a many things to tell, has this little
man! Hasn't he now, Mrs. Wardle?"

Aunt M'riar--good woman as she was--had a vice. She always would improve
occasions. This time she must needs say:--"There, Davy, now! Hear what
Mrs. Prichard says--so kind! You tell Mrs. Prichard all about Mrs.
Marrowbone and the bull in the duckpond. You tell her!"

Dave, with absolute belief in the boon he was conferring on his
venerable hearer, started at once on a complicated statement, as one who
accepted the instruction in the spirit in which it was given. But first
he had to correct a misapprehension. "The bool wasn't in the duckpong.
The bool was in Farmer Jones's field, and the field was in the duckpong
on the other side. And the dusk was in the pong where there wasn't no
green." Evidently an oasis of black juice in the weed, which ducks
enjoy. Dave thought no explanation necessary, and went on:--"Then Farmer
Jones he was a horseback, and he rodid acrost the field, he did. And he
undooed the gate with his whip to go froo, and it stumbled and let the
bool froo, and Farmer Jones he rodid off to get the boy that
understoodid the bool. He fetched him back behind his saddle, he did.
And then the boy he got the bool's nose under control, and leaded him
back easy, and they shet to the gate." One or two words--"control," for
instance--treasured as essential and conscientiously repeated, gave Dave
some trouble; but he got through them triumphantly.

"Is that all the story, Dave?" said Mrs. Prichard, who was affecting
deep interest; although it was by now painfully evident that Dave had
involved himself in a narrative without much plot. He nodded decisively
to convey that it was substantially complete, but added to round it
off:--"Mr. Marrowbone the Smith from Crincham he come next day and
mended up the gate, only the bool he was tied to