Stevie determined he wouldn't go in
of his own accord--he said Dave had been "too contemptibly mean." So
he sat there with a very obstinate look on his little face, his elbows
on his knees and his chin in his palms, staring at the patch of blue
sky which was visible through the hall window nearest him.
But somehow, after a while Stevie's anger began to cool, and he began
to feel sorry for Dave, and to wonder if the cushion had hurt him--a
corner of it might have struck his eye! The paper-weight had hurt
quite a good deal; but then he could get out of the way of such things,
while Dave couldn't dodge, he had to lie there and take what Stevie
threw. Poor Dave! and he might lie in that helpless way for years
yet--the doctors had said perhaps by the time he was twenty-one he
might be able to walk. What a long time to have to wait! Poor Dave!
Stevie wondered if he would behave better than Dave if he were twelve
years old and as helpless as his cousin. Mehitabel said they were both
fond of their own way and loved to order people about; he guessed all
boys loved their own way, whether they were nine or twelve years old.
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