imitation of an over-affectionate mother's voice call out: "Lio-o-o-o-nel! Lio-o-o-o-nel Clarence!" and then inquire, mockingly, if Curly Locks wanted to come fishing.
At this Lonely remembered that the Preacher's son wore his hair in longish yellow-brown curls, and dressed, usually, in a black velvet suit, with ruffles, and a hopeless white collar.
So Lonely looked at Alaska Alice once more, half affectionately, half defiantly, and realized that his Waterloo was not far away. He made one desperate effort, while there was still time, to waken the grass-gorged and ruminant Plato from an attitude of hopeless and demeaning melancholy. This he tried to do by means of an adroitly flung pebble or two. Plato, however, instead of being stung out of his woe-begone abjection by these unjust missiles, merely whisked his thin tail languidly and stood on three legs, in meek and monumental pensiveness.
Then Lonely waited for the outcome.
"Git onto the bone-yard!" cried a voice from the advance guard of the approaching enemy. A moment later a stone or two fell about the old horse.
