Phœbe wished that she might have had a different tale to tell. If only she had thought to gag Manila, and tie her hands! If only she could tell of, say, a kidnapping plot, of a great, black limousine, and Mexicans with knives! But——
“Well, Uncle Bob,” she began calmly, “I did go over and get her. Miss Ruth told us she was crying. Well, she wasn’t. She was cutting paper dolls. Anyhow, I stole her, and she’s cried a lot since. Uncle John says I’m too big for dolls, so I intend to adopt her.”
“Adopt her!” exploded Uncle Bob.
“Oh, just look at her!” implored Phœbe. “She’s had such bad luck!—a step-mother, and the awful name of Botts, and she’s red-haired, and freckled, and she’s got adenoids!”
Mrs. Botts sprang forward. “So-o-o!” she answered. “She is like that. But she can mind her own business. And she does not talk too much. She might be worse—as bad as you!”
“Phœbe,” said Uncle Bob. He crossed to her, anxiously Phœbe thought.
“You are a little thief!” Mrs. Botts stuck a fist close to Phœbe’s nose. “And I will have you arrested! The whole town knows about you. Miss Simpson, she——”
Uncle Bob put a hand over each of Phœbe’s ears then, shutting out that shrill voice. Once Phœbe heard “school,” and twice she heard “your mother.” Then Mrs. Botts flung herself away and out.
“What did she say, Uncle Bob?” asked Phœbe. “What did you cover my ears for? What did she say?”
Uncle Bob did not reply. He was white with rage. He went to the door and looked through. “Sophie, put that vixen out!” he ordered.