Walter Blythe suddenly rose from a mossy cushion behind a little clump of firs where he had been reading. He was very pale, but his eyes blazed.
“You hold your tongue, Dan Reese!” he said.
“Oh, hello, Miss Walter,” retorted Dan, not at all abashed. He vaulted airily to the top of the rail fence and chanted insultingly,
“Cowardy, cowardy-custard Stole a pot of mustard, Cowardy, cowardy-custard!”
“You are a coincidence!” said Walter scornfully, turning still whiter. He had only a very hazy idea what a coincidence was, but Dan had none at all and thought it must be something peculiarly opprobrious.