"Yes, that's writ-ing," I said, but my eyes were kind.
"—ing, then!" she retorted, with some force, but I knew she was aggravated with herself, and not with me. Then she sat up very straight, and defiantly checked off each word of her next sentence on her palm, using an absurd fist as a checker.
"It—don't—look—like—Gran'fer's—writ-ing!"
I roared mightily at this, for her belligerency was irresistible.
At first she was amazed at my outburst, for her earnestness had prevented her from seeing how truly attractive her little speech had been. But as I kept on laughing she presently joined me, and together we raised such a disturbance that Gran'fer hurried out to investigate. I jumped up and took his hand, and managed to control myself enough to tell him the cause.
"B' gosh! 'S a good thing S'firy's not here!" he exclaimed, leering from one to the other with his good-natured eyes twinkling. "She'd 'low you 's bust'n' th' Sabbath, 'n' like 's not 'd 'vite you back to Baldy!"
He poked a crooked finger in my ribs, thrust his middle out and his shoulders back and gave a series of piercing screeches which I judged was his way of expressing superlative mirth.
I put my arm around his shoulder chum-fashion, and drew him aside.
"I hid and watched her leave," I whispered.
Again he screeched.