Aw, gee! Why couldn’t she have been let alone to swagger about always in her cute boyish britches!
Hulda looked again and studied Miss Mayonnaise’s head and shoulders as they stuck before the curtain.
She stared more closely.
“Oho,” cried Hulda, “Allah bane knock me dead for a dumbkopf! I git it now what is it you is. Wait—I git a Turkish towel—we got lots of ’em, we have—and I give you a Swedish massage.”
“Hulda, my desert child, I thank you,” said Verbeena gratefully.
By the way, all this time they had been talking French as they did later when Hulda was arranging Verbeena’s clothing anew.
HULDA, AN AFRICAN MAID.
She looked up at her mistress, her big black Swedish eyes puzzled as she asked: