“Pretty hot,” she said. It was really barely warm, for the fire was fast dying, but to her unaccustomed finger it felt hot.
“Now, I’m really Mrs. O’Flanagan. We mustn’t forget to play. You take care of the baby, mother, and I’ll iron. And—Hilda!” with a sudden change of tone, “Look here!” for the half-warm flat-iron on the damp sheet had left a long, black smooch. “What in the world is the matter? It keeps doing it;” for Cricket tried different places, with the result of producing a smallpox of black spots. “Did you ever?”
“Perhaps the iron is too hot, and scorches it,” suggested Hilda, surveying the places critically.
“I never want to hear the word ‘scorched’ again,” said Cricket, setting down her iron with a thump. “If it’s being scorched, I shan’t iron any more. That’s one thing sure;” and Cricket hastily bundled the sheet back into the basket. Between lying on the floor and the smooches from the iron, the colour of the sheet was fast becoming African.
“It’s the queerest thing! I thought that ironing was as easy as falling off a log,” using her favourite comparison, which long experience had shown her was very easy indeed.
“When Sarah irons, she leaves smooth streaks everywhere the iron touches. I thought anybody could iron.”
“I thought anybody could fry potatoes. Cricket, what time do you suppose it is? I think it must be nearly dinner-time. Don’t you feel as if you’d been here a week?”
“Yes, a month. Don’t eat that string, Mosina. You’re as bad as Johnnie-goat.”
“And, Cricket, just suppose she shouldn’t get home before dark!”
“Oh, papa would send for us,” said Cricket, securely. “He knows we’re here. But I do wish Mrs. Brummagen would come home. I’m getting dreadfully tired of playing I’m poor. What do you want, Mosina?” picking up the plump baby that crawled up to her, pulling at her dress. She sat down on the floor, taking her little charge in her arms.