“Never mind, the floor looks clean. We’ll pick it up,” said Phil consolingly.
So the four boys dropped on their knees and began to collect the scattered kernels, eating industriously the while; and Bess, yielding the spoon to Sam, made futile attempts to catch Fuzz, who frisked about, now on Rob's back, now rubbing back and forth under Ted's nose.
The candy was finished and set out in the snow to cool, while ten hands were washed and buttered, ready to make the corn-balls and to pull the candy. Fuzz, meanwhile, had wandered back to the parlor.
“This is fine!” said Bert, scientifically rolling the balls into shape. “But what ails yours, Sam?”
“I don’t know,” replied that youth, as he patted and poked at a mass that insisted on sticking to his fingers, but obstinately refused to hold itself together. “It won’t stick to itself half as much as it does to me.”
“Why don’t you throw it away and start fresh?” was Phil’s suggestion.
“I can't. It won’t throw.” And the boys
