“Well, by—­” he stopped and came closer and asked.

“What’s happened?”

“Bee stung me,” I answered.

“Where did ye find so much honey that ye could go swimmin’ in it?” he asked.

I heard the door of the house open suddenly and the voice of Aunt Deel.

“Peabody!  Peabody! come here quick,” she called.

Uncle Peabody ran to the house, but I stayed out with the dog.

Through the open door I heard Aunt Deel saying:  “I can’t stan’ it any longer and I won’t—­not another day—­ayes, I can’t stan’ it.  That boy is a reg’lar pest.”

They came out on the veranda.  Uncle Peabody said nothing, but I could see that he couldn’t stand it either.  My brain was working fast.

“Come here, sir,” Uncle Peabody called.

I knew it was serious, for he had never called me “sir” before.  I went slowly to the steps.

“My lord!” Aunt Deel exclaimed.  “Look at that lip and the honey all over him—­ayes!  I tell ye—­I can’t stan’ it.”

“Say, boy, is there anything on this place that you ain’t tipped over?” Uncle Peabody asked in a sorrowful tone.  “Wouldn’t ye like to tip the house over?”

I was near breaking down in this answer: 

“I went into the but’ry and that pan jumped on to me.”

“Didn’t you taste the honey?”

“No,” I drew in my breath and shook my head.

“Liar, too!” said Aunt Deel.  “I can’t stan’ it an’ I won’t.”

Uncle Peabody was sorely tried, but he was keeping down his anger.  His voice trembled as he said: 

“Boy, I guess you’ll have to—­”

Uncle Peabody stopped.  He had been driven to the last ditch, but he had not stepped over it.  However, I knew what he had started to say and sat down on the steps in great dejection.  Shep followed, working at my coat with his tongue.

I think that the sight of me must have touched the heart of Aunt Deel.

“Peabody Baynes, we mustn’t be cruel,” said she in a softer tone, and then she brought a rag and began to assist Shep in the process of cleaning my coat.  “Good land!  He’s got to stay here—­ayes!—­he ain’t got no other place to go to.”

“But if you can’t stan’ it,” said Uncle Peabody.

“I’ve got to stan’ it—­ayes!—­I can’t stan’ it, but I’ve got to—­ayes!  So have you.”

Aunt Deel put me to bed although it was only five o’clock.  As I lay looking up at the shingles a singular resolution came to me.  It was born of my longing for the companionship of my kind and of my resentment.  I would go and live with the Dunkelbergs.  I would go the way they had gone and find them.  I knew it was ten miles away, but of course everybody knew where the Dunkelbergs lived and any one would show me.  I would run and get there before dark and tell them that I wanted to live with them, and every day I would play with Sally Dunkelberg.  Uncle Peabody was not half as nice to play with as she was.