Jim. Hullo, yourself!
Dick. Are you the boy that my papa gets his papers of?
Jim. Don't know.
[Dot walks decidedly over to Polly.
Dot. Let me feel your hands. They're just like ice; I knew it. Put them right in here with mine. [Kneels in front of Polly and puts her hands in muff. Dick moves sled close to Jim and sits astride of it.]
Dick. Have you sold all your papers?
Jim. No, I've got two left.
Dick. Isn't it lots of fun to sell papers and earn money?
Jim. I don't know,—not this kind of weather.
Dick. I think it would be fun. I wouldn't want to sell 'em on Christmas. Do you have to work on Christmas day?