“I’m a-thinkin’.” Not to have ’em that would go,—not go! Never to kite after Dennis O’Toole’s ice-wagon an’ hang on behind,—nor see who’d get to the corner first,—nor stand on your head an’ wave ’em—
“No, sirree!” ejaculated Jolly, with unction, “nothin’.”
“Would ever make up, you mean?” Morry sighed. He had known all the time, of course what the answer would be.
“Yep,—nothin’ could.”
“I thought so. That’s all,—I mean, thank you. Oh yes, there’s one other thing,—I’ve been saving it up. Did you ever hear of a—of a step-mother, Jolly? I just thought I’d ask.”
The result was surprising. The telescoped legs came to view jerkily, but with haste. Jolly stumbled to his feet.
“I better be a-goin’,” he muttered, thinking of empty chip-baskets, empty water-pails, undone errands,—a switch on two nails behind the kitchen door.
“Oh, wait a minute,—did you ever hear of one, Jolly?”
“You bet,” gloomily, “I got one.”
“Oh!—oh, I didn’t know. Then,” rather timidly, “perhaps—I wish you’d tell me what they’re like.”