"If I be more careful not to dirty so many clothes, will it help?" he asked.
"It would leave me that much more time and strength to give to her," she said.
"Will all I can save you in any way be helping her that much?" he persisted.
"Surely!" she said. "Soon as he's out of sight, I'm going to begin on her. But don't let them hear!"
Junior nodded. He sat down on the bank watching as if fascinated the feet trying to splash in the water. Mickey could feel the effort of the small body.
"You take her now," he said to Peter. Then he threw off his shoes and stockings, turned up his knee breeches and stepped into the water, where he helped the feet to kick and splash. He rubbed them and at last picked up handfuls of fine sand and lightly massaged with it until he brought a pink glow.
"That's the stuff," indorsed Peter. "Look at that! You're pulling the blood down."
"Where's the blood?" asked Peaches.
Peter explained the circulatory system and why all the years of lying, with no movement, had made her so helpless. He told her why scarce and wrong food had not made good blood to push down and strengthen her feet so they would walk. He told her the friction of the sand-rubbing would pull it down, while the sun, water, and earth would help. Peaches with wide eyes listened, her breath coming faster and faster, until suddenly she leaned forward and cried: "Rub, Mickey! Rub 'til the blood flies! Rub 'em hot as hell!"
"Well, Miss Chicken!" he cried in despair.