“Samson could have drawed a train of cars, anyway.”
“Oh, Winnie Breynton!”
“Well, if he had a steam-leg, he’d be jest as good as an engine—wouldn’t I like to seen him!” Just then a branch struck Winnie’s head with decidedly more emphasis than the handful of blossoms, and Winnie slid to the ground, and remarked, with dignity, that he was sorry he couldn’t stay longer. He would come again another day. About half way up the walk, he stopped, and turned leisurely round.
“Oh—Gypsy! Mother want’s to know where’s the key of the china-closet she let you have. She’s in a great hurry. That’s what I come down for; I s’posed there was something or nuther.”
“Why, Winnie Breynton! and you’ve been sitting there all this——”
“Where’s the key?” interrupted Winnie, severely; “mother hadn’t ought to be kept waitin’clock.”
“It’s up-stairs in—in, I guess in my slippers,” said Gypsy, stopping to think.
“Slippers!”
“Yes. I was afraid I should forget to put it up, so I put it in my slipper, because I should feel it, and remember it. Then I took off the slippers, and that was the last I thought of it.”
“It was very careless,” said Winnie, with a virtuous air. It was noticeable that he took good care to be out of hearing of Gypsy’s reply.