“A good many of them. You know about Doodles?”
“No. What?”
“When he was three or four years old he had a fall and could never walk a step afterwards until father operated upon him some six years ago.”
“Well, that’s amazin’ly marvelous, of course; but they’ve taken that kid to piles of doctors, and every one of ’em said she couldn’t be cured.”
“Yes,” smiled Polly. “And Doodles was examined by a famous New York surgeon just before father saw him; his verdict was that the case was utterly hopeless.”
“He did! Sinners and snobs! Why in the universe don’t you do some braggin’? Bet I would, if it was my father.”
The girl laughed. “I believe in him thoroughly,” she said. “That’s better than braggardism.”
“My! but that’s a lovely word!” cried Benedicta. “Say it again, please; I never heard it.”
Polly repeated it. “When I was a child,” she laughed, “I used to say ‘superbondonjical.’ Maybe that would suit you.”
“Fine! What does it mean?”