The next minit, spang went the book agin Cousin Pete’s head.
“Whew!” ses he, “brother, I’m bob’d.”
“Who bob’d you?” ses they.
But Cousin Pete didn’t gess rite nother, and the fust thing I knowed,
whang they tuck me agin. I was dredful anxious to gess rite, but it was
no use, I missed it every time, and so did Cousin Pete, and the harder
they hit the harder they laughed. One time they hit me a great deal
softlier than the rest.
“Brother, I’m bob’d!” ses I.
“Who bob’d you?” ses they.
“Miss Mary Stallins,” ses I.
“No, I never,” ses she; and they all roared out worse than ever.
I begin to git monstrous tired of sich fun, which seemed so much like
the frogs in the spellin’ book—for it was fun to them but it was deth
to me—and I don’t know what I would done if Mary hadn’t come up and
ontied the hankercher.
“Let’s play something else,” ses she, and her face was as red as fire,
and she looked sort o’ mad out of her eyes.