"I fear," Mr. Wycherly said, somewhat breathlessly, for Edmund was sitting upon that portion of his body known in sporting circles as "the wind," "that I cannot sing, for I don’t know any songs." "Say, zen, say, man," Edmund cried, jumping up and down upon poor Mr. Wycherly’s yielding frame. "He means you to say him a poem," Montagu explained. Now of poetry Mr. Wycherly knew plenty, both in Greek and Latin and English, but none of it seemed particularly suitable to the present circumstances. The only lines that came willingly to his call were— Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste, which he felt would meet with but scant approval from his present audience. "Say ’ime, say ’ime, man!" cried Edmund, with an ominous droop of the corners of his mouth. "Say ’Hickory, dickory, dock," Montagu suggested kindly, "he likes that—and you tickle him where it runs up, and where it runs down, and at the end, you know." "But I don’t know any poem called ’Hickory, dickory, dock," Mr. Wycherly protested despairingly. "Say ’ime, man! Say dock!" Edmund persisted, punching Mr. Wycherly in the chest to emphasise his wishes. "Say dock. Quit." "I’ll whisper it to you," murmured the helpful Montagu, "it goes like this—’Hickory, dickory, dock." "Hickory, dickory, dock," Mr. Wycherly repeated dutifully and distinctly. "The mouse ran up the clock," Montagu continued. "The mouse ran up the clock——" "But you didn’t tickle him," Montagu interrupted. Mr. Wycherly looked at Edmund, and Edmund looked with eager expectation at Mr. Wycherly. Now to tickle any one appeared to Mr. Wycherly a most unwarrantable liberty. Such a mode of procedure had never entered into his scheme of life at all. He was not even sure how he ought to set about it. He decided that tickling was altogether out of his province, and he would not experiment, even upon Edmund. He cleared his throat nervously. "Ahem," said Mr. Wycherly, "Hickory, dickory, dock, the mouse ran up the clock——" "No! No!" shouted Edmund. "’E mouse ’an down." "The mouse ran down the clock," echoed the obedient Mr. Wycherly. "No, No," cried both the little boys. "The clock struck one." Here Edmund gave a most tremendous bounce that really hurt Mr. Wycherly. "Ve mouse ’an down," he continued, scrabbling with his fingers all over Mr. Wycherly’s face, and seizing him by the collar of his night shirt to burrow in his neck. "Hickory, dickory, dock," Montagu concluded in a joyful chant. "Now you know it, only you must run up and down, you know." "Oh, I really cannot do that," Mr. Wycherly expostulated, "not before I am dressed." Montagu looked puzzled. "You ought to tickle us, you know, like Edmund did, and with your fingers; it’s quite easy, really." "Adain!" Edmund commanded, squirming and jumping all over the very softest portions of Mr. Wycherly’s person, and causing that patient gentleman acute agony. "Adain!"