The Imp and the Author
body, nor, for that matter, a sentimental baby-tender. No, he was serious and sincere. So the Imp turned about and recited his wrongs systematically and in detail, ending with a bitter emphasis:
"And I don't believe I'll ever go back, ever at all! They'll be sorry then, I'll bet!"
"Oh, yes, you will," said the Author quietly; "where'll you get your meals?"
The Imp's expression changed. A worried look crept into his round brown eyes. He scowled, and considered how long ago he had had that ginger-bread.
"Oh, my! Oh, dear me!" he wailed, "I am so hungry!"
The Author jumped up. "Why, haven't you had your lunch?" he cried. "Here, wait a minute! I forgot all about it!"
He ran around the rock, and presently returned with a big white beach-umbrella rolled up. Strapped to it was a fair-sized box and a bottle, leather-covered. From out of the box he lifted a little napkin, and then—oh joy!—some fat white sandwiches appeared. Deviled eggs nestled in the corners, and three little soft round sponge-
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