"Just what does 'scatecornered' mean, Uncle Rufus?" asked Dot, who delighted in polysyllables.
"Why, chile, 'scatecornered' am a pufficly good word, fo' I has used it all ma life. It's—er—well, it's sort of a short-cut for de meanin' of slantindicular an crisscrosswise; w'ich means dat it ain't straight an' ain't crooked, but sort o'—er—scatecornered. Dere, chile, now you knows."
"Yes, Uncle Rufus; thank you," said Dot, polite if she did feel rather dizzy after his explanation.
But it was with Tess, who was nearly two years older than Dot and thought herself vastly more grown up, and with Sammy Pinkney this story was begun, and one should stick to one's text.
"Yes," murmured Tess, "I wish I had an airship."
Sammy looked at her, rather awed. Lately he was beginning to feel a mite awed in Tess Kenway's company, anyway. She had always been a thoughtful child. Aunt Sarah Maltby declared she was uncanny and gave her the fidgets. Of late even the boy who desired to be a pirate found Tess puzzling.
"Huh! An airship? What would you do with it? Where would you keep it?" he finally demanded, his queries being nothing if not practical.
Really Tess had not addressed him directly. She had just audibly expressed a thought, and one that had long been in her mind in embryo. So she did not answer the neighbor boy, who was sitting beside her on the side stoop of the Corner House, rigging a self-whittled ship to sail in the horse-trough.
"You know very well it wouldn't go in the garage; and the toolshed and the henhouse—even Tom Jonah's house—are all too small. Huh! that's like a girl! Never look ahead to see what they'd do with an airship if somebody gave 'em one."
"Well, I don't s'pose anybody will," admitted Tess, with a sigh, having heard at least the last part of Sammy's speech.