"I shall never finish it, Jerry, never!" she said with a sigh.
"Chubby," said Jerry, solemnly, "you've been crying."
Chubby rubbed her eyes hastily with her two fists. "I don't think so," she replied in a muffled tone; "it was just three tears that trickled down my nose and made a smudge on the slate; but that isn't crying. You know it isn't, Jerry!"
Jerry rubbed his own eyes a little guiltily. "My kite wouldn't fly," he remarked, and tried to look as though he did not care a bit.
"What!" cried Chubby. "Wouldn't your kite fly? Then I never need have cried at all."
Jerry clambered on the window ledge and sat there with his legs swinging to and fro. He wished Chubby would not talk so much about crying. "All the string got mixed up," he explained with dignity; "I expect that was it."
"I don't," said Chubby, decidedly; "it was because the tail was too short. I told you so, all the time."
No doubt there was something in what she said, but reasons are not much good when you are seven years old and your kite won't fly, and Jerry was not in a mood to be trifled with.
"If you know so much about it," he retorted, "you'd better come and fly it yourself."
"I only wish I could," sighed poor little Chubby. "If you'll tell me how many times seven goes into—"