And when Lovin Child got so tickled he was perfectly helpless in the corner where he had sought refuge, Bud caught him and swung him up to his shoulder and let him grab handfuls of dirt out of the roof.
Lovin Child liked that better than being a bear, and sifted Bud's hair full of dried mud, and threw the rest on the floor, and frequently cried "Tell a worl'!" which he had learned from Bud and could say with the uncanny pertinency of a parrot.
He had signified a desire to have Bud carry him along the wall, where some lovely lumps of dirt protruded temptingly over a bulging log.

Then he leaned and grabbed with his two fat hands at a particularly big, hard lump.

It came away in his hands and fell plump on the blankets of the bunk, half blinding Bud with the dust that came with it.
"Hey! You'll have all the chinkin' out of the dang shack, if you let him keep that lick up, Bud," Cash grumbled, lifting his eyebrows at the mess.
"Tell a worl'!" Lovin Child retorted over his shoulder, and made another grab.
This time the thing he held resisted his baby strength.

He pulled and he grunted, he kicked Bud in the chest and grabbed again.

Bud was patient, and let him fuss--though in self-defense he kept his head down and his eyes away from the expected dust bath.
"Stay with it, Boy; pull the darn roof down, if yuh want.