"Why, Floretta!" cried Nancy.
Now you think that was horrid, but I tell you it was funny. She'd just been telling about her darling little lap-dog that died ten years ago, and she got out her handkerchief to cry, and put it up to her eyes.
"'Oh, if I only could hear his lovely bark again!' she said, and right behind her chair, I said:
"'Ki-yi! Yip! Yip!' and she jumped up much as a foot from her seat."
Nancy laughed. How could she help it? The old lady had told every man, woman, and child who sat upon the piazza, how much she had suffered in the loss of the dog.
One testy old gentleman who was troubled with gout, spoke rather plainly. "Madam," he said, "I've heard that story every day of this week, and all I can say is, I wish you had gout in your feet as I have, and you'd have no time to waste crying for a puppy!"
He certainly was hopelessly rude, but one must admit every day is far too often to be forced to listen to an uninteresting tale.
Floretta stood looking down at the toe of her shoe. She moved it from side to side along the grass for a moment, then she spoke again.
"You know old Mr. Cunningham has gout, and is awful cross?"
Dorothy and Nancy nodded. They did indeed know that.