“You know very well, Sammy, that you can’t be that,” said Tess reprovingly.
“Huh? Why can’t I? I bet I’d make just as good a clown as Mr. Sully Sorber, who is Neale’s half-uncle, or Mr. Asa Scruggs, who is Barnabetta’s father.”
“I don’t mean you can’t be a clown,” interrupted Tess. “I mean you can’t be just nothing. You occupy space, so you must be something. Our teacher says so.”
“Shucks!” ejaculated Sammy Pinkney. “Don’t I know that? And I wish you wouldn’t talk about school. Why! we’re only in the middle of our vacation, I should hope.”
“It seems such a long time since we went to school,” murmured Dot, who was sitting by, nursing the Alice-doll in her arms and waiting her turn to be called into the circus ring, which was the cleared space in the middle of the cement floor.
“That’s because all you folks went off cruising on that houseboat and never took me with you,” grumbled Sammy, who still held a deep-seated grouch because of the matter mentioned. “But ’tain’t been long since school closed—and it isn’t going to be long before the old thing opens again.”
“Why, Sammy!” admonished Tess.
“I just hate school, so I do!” vigorously announced the boy. “I’d rather be a tramp—or a Gypsy. Yes, I would.”
“Or a pirate, Sammy?” suggested Dot reflectively. “You know, me and you didn’t have a very nice time when we went off to be pirates. ’Member?”
“Huh!” grumbled Sammy, “that was because you was along. Girls can’t be pirates worth shucks. And anyway,” he concluded, “I’m going to be the joey in this show, or I won’t play.”