“But if you’re ill you’re sick,” Margy argued. “Why isn’t that right, Jess?”
“Because,” said Jess, “the word is music. Take away the first letter, and you have U-sick. Don’t you see?”
“Oh, well, I call that a foolish riddle,” sighed poor Margy. “But I’ll pay a forfeit. What shall it be, Jess?”
“You don’t have to pay much of a forfeit,” Jess assured her. “You almost had the riddle, so I’ll give you an easy one to pay—nothing to redeem. The red beads, please.”
Margy and Polly laughed. The string of red beads Margy was wearing belonged to Jess, and she was merely taking her own property as a forfeit.
“Now I’ll ask Artie,” Polly said, when the beads had changed hands. “Then we can adjourn the meeting.”
“Artie,” she said quickly, “on what side of the pitcher is the handle?”
Artie sat in perfect silence for what seemed a long time. No one moved, so fearful were they of disturbing his train of thought. It must have been three minutes—and a long three minutes it was—before he spoke.
“The outside,” said Artie, sweetly.
He looked around, and his irrepressible grin broke out. In a minute Ward was on top of him, and they were rolling joyously about on the window seat.