"Not my fault!" shouted Albin.

"Yes it is!"

"No it isn't!"

"Is!"

Albin lay back against the rickety wall of his tree-hut and closed his eyes. He was too tired to shout any more. He could carry on the argument tomorrow, when he and Groundhog did the lawns, and hen house, and dog pen, and potato patch down the road.

As he lay there, weary and worn out, he thought of a good name for himself. It wasn't one he'd want to say out loud, and he hoped no-one would call him by it, but it seemed a pretty good one all the same.