“You know as well as I do.”
“What did you observe?”
“Tom Breynton!”
“That’s my name.”
“Will you, or will you not, come down to the pond and have a row?”
“Let’s hear you tease a little.”
“Catch me! If you won’t come for a civil request, I won’t tease for it.”
“Very good,” said Tom, laying aside his Euclid; “I like your spunk. Rather think I’ll go.”
Tom tossed on his cap and was ready. Gypsy hurried away to array herself in the complication of garments necessary to the feminine adventurer, if she so much as crosses the yard; a continual mystery of Providence, was this little necessity to Gypsy, and one against which she lived in a state of incessant rebellion. It was provoking enough to stand there in her room, tugging and hurrying till she was red in the face, over a pair of utterly heartless and unimpressible rubbers, that absolutely refused to slip over the heel of her boot, and to see Tom through the window, with his hands in his pocket, ready, waiting, and impatient, alternately whistling and calling for her.
“I never did!” said Gypsy, in no very gentle tone.