"No, no," cried Clorinda; "wait a minit—my foot—my foot!"
"Hev yer hurt it?" demanded Vic; "let me zamine."
"It's my ankle; can't yer understand?"
"No, I kin't onderstand nothin' 'bout it, only yer makin' a outrageous ole fool o' yerself, and freezin' us to death. Mr. Dolf, 'spozen we go in."
"Yer wouldn't desart a sister in distress," said Dolf, dancing about the prostrate form, unable to comprehend why Clo would not permit him to assist her; while she huddled herself in a heap, in true spinster fear of showing her ankles or exposing the borrowed boot.
"Now, Clo," cried Victoria, "jis git up; I won't stand dis fooling no longer."
"Help me," said Clo; "do help me."
"Hain't Mr. Dolf ben a tryin' dese ten minits!"
"No, no! Bend down here, Vic. Mr. Dolf, if yer's a gemman I ax yer to shut yer eyes."
"My duty is to sarve de fair," said Dolf, turning his back and peeping over his shoulder, very curious to know what could be the difficulty.