“Hur—ry up!” called Tom, coolly.
“These old rubbers!” said Gypsy.
“What’s the matter?” asked her mother, stopping at the door.
“It’s enough to try the patience of a saint!” said Gypsy, emphatically, holding out her foot.
“Perhaps I can help you,” said Mrs. Breynton, stooping down. “Why, Gypsy! your boots are wet through; of course the rubbers won’t go on.”
“I didn’t suppose that would make any difference,” said Gypsy, looking rather foolish. “I got them wet this morning, down at the swamp. I thought they were dry, though: I sat with my feet in the oven until Patty drove me off. She said I was in the bread.”
“You will have to put on your best boots,” said her mother.
“Oh, Tom!” called Gypsy, in despair, as the shrillest of all shrill whistles came up through the window. “Everything’s in a jumble! I’ll be there as soon as I can.”