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And William, artist in vituperation as he was, could think of no response. He followed them into the garden, and there came upon him a wild determination to show his superiority. "You can't climb that tree," he began. "I can," said Cuthbert sweetly. "Well, climb it then," grimly. "No, I don't want to get my thingth all methed. I can climb it, but you can't.
He can't climb it, Joan, he'th trying to pretend he can climb it when he can't. He knowth I can climb it, but I don't want to get my thingth methed." Joan smiled admiringly at Cuthbert. "I'll show you," said William desperately. "I'll just show you." He showed them. He climbed till the tree-top swayed with his weight, then descended, hot and triumphant.
William now varied the proceedings by emptying the jar of jam on to Cuthbert's face and hair. They were separated at last by the prompter and stage manager, while the audience rose and cheered hysterically. But louder than the cheering rose the sound of Cuthbert's lamentation. "He'th a nathty, rough boy! He puthed me down. He'th methed my nith clotheth. Boo-hoo!"
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