Part 22 (1/2)
”Did you call some one, Miss Atterbury?” he said, with chilling dignity.
Usually he called her plain Rosa.
”I thought may be you had the toothache--you kept so quiet.”
”No; I haven't got the toothache.” Poor d.i.c.k! He said, to himself, that he had much worse. But he wouldn't gratify her with the acknowledgment of her triumph, and he stalked along with the basket over his head, as he had often seen the darkeys in the sun. There was a faint little appealing cry from behind.
”Oh--oh--dear!”
”What is it; are you hurt?” he cried, rus.h.i.+ng to where Rosa stood, balanced on one foot.
”There is a crab thorn an inch long in my foot; it's gone through shoe and all. That wretched Sardanapalus never clears the limbs away when he cuts the hedge. I'll have him horsewhipped. Oh, dear!”
”Let me hold you while I look for the thorn.”
d.i.c.k cleverly slipped his arm about her waist and set the basket endwise for her to sit on. Then kneeling, he picked out the thorn, which was a great deal less than the dimensions Rosa had described. But he said nothing to her about picking the torment out and slipping it in his vest pocket. He held the foot, examining the sole critically. Finally, as she moved impatiently, he asked:
”Does it hurt yet?”
”Of course it does, you stupid fellow. Do you suppose I would sit here like a goose on a gridiron and let you hold my foot if it didn't hurt?
Men never have any sense when they ought to.”
He affected to examine the sole of the thin leather of the upper still more minutely. As she gave no sign of ending the comedy, he said:
”I'm sure, Rosa, if it relieves the pain to have me hold your foot, I'll sit here in the sun all day--if you'll bring the rim of your hat over a little--but, as for the thorn, it has been out this ten minutes.”
She gave him a sudden push and darted away. He followed laughing, admonis.h.i.+ng her against another thorn. But she deigned no answer. Coming to the bee-hives, she stopped a moment to watch the busy swarm, and d.i.c.k stole up beside her. She turned pettishly, and he said, insinuatingly:
”Toothache?”
”You know, d.i.c.k, you're too trying for anything--holding my foot there like a ninny in the hot sun. You haven't a thimbleful of sense.”
”Well, now we'll test these propositions, as Jack does, by syllogisms.
Let me see. All men are trying. d.i.c.k Perley is a man: therefore he is trying.”
”No; your premise--isn't that what you call it?--is wrong. d.i.c.k Perley is only a boy.”
”I'll be nineteen in January next.”
”Well?”
”Well, your father was married at nineteen. You've said it yourself, Rosa, and thought it greatly to his credit--at least Vint does.”
”You can't imitate my father in that, at least.”
”I might.”
”How?”
”You could help me, Rosa.”