“I like the apples best, Patsey,” replied the plaintive little voice. “You’re so good!”
“I had one mesilf, an’ it’s first-rate. Casey’s goin’ ter lick me—don’t yer wish him luck?”
Patsey laughed again. He seemed much amused over the fact.
“No, I don’t,” said Dil stoutly. “Was it ’bout the flowers?” and Dil began to peel the soft harvest apple, looking up with eager interest.
“The cop gev him a clip, an’ he was mad all through.” Patsey nodded humorously.
“What would he have done with the roses?” Dil asked, with pity in her voice.
“Taken ’em to his best gal!” This seemed an immense joke to the boy.
“An’ I’m your best girl, Patsey,” said Bess, laying her little hand on his, so brown.
“That you jest are, an’ don’t yer forgit it,” he replied heartily.
Dil fed her with slices of the apple. It was so refreshing to her parched mouth and throat. Patsey had so many amusing incidents to relate; but he always slipped away early, before the boys came home. He wanted no one telling tales.