"But," he demurred, after a moment's thought, "I haven't got wings an' things—or a trumpet." 

 "Your kind never do have wings and trumpets." 

 "Oh, I see," he said; and sitting down began to wipe the mud from his legs with his stockings. 

 "Rather muddy, aren't you?" I hinted. The boy cast a furtive glance at his draggled person. 

 "'Fraid I'm a teeny bit wet, too," he said hesitatingly.  "You see, I've been playing at 'Romans' an' I had to wade, you know, because I was the standard bearer who jumped into the sea waving his sword an' crying, 'Follow me!'  You remember him, don't you?—he's in the history book." 

 "To be sure," I nodded; "a truly heroic character. But if you were the Romans, where were the ancient Britons?" 

 "Oh, they were the reeds, you know; you ought to have seen me slay them. It was fine; they went down like—like—" 

 "Corn before a sickle," I suggested. 

 "Yes, just!" he cried; "the battle raged for hours." 

 "You must be rather tired." 

 "'Course not," he answered, with an indignant look.  "I'm not a girl—and I'm nearly nine, too." 

 "I gather from your tone that you are not partial to the sex—you don't like girls, eh, Imp?" 

 "Should think not," he returned; "silly things, girls are. There's Dorothy, you know; we were playing at executions the other day—she was Mary Queen of Scots an' I was the headsman. I made a lovely axe with wood and silver paper, you know; and when I cut her head off she cried awfully, and I only gave her the weeniest little tap—an' they sent me to bed at six o'clock for it. I believe she cried on purpose—awfully caddish, wasn't it?" 

 "My dear Imp," said I, "the older you grow, the more the depravity of the sex will become apparent to you." 

 "Do you know, I like you," he said, regarding me thoughtfully, "I think you are fine." 

 "Now that's very nice of you, Imp; in common with my kind I have a weakness for flattery—please go on." 

 "I mean, I think you are jolly." 

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