He affected to examine the sole of the thin leather of the upper still more minutely. As she gave no sign of ending the comedy, he said:
"I'm sure, Rosa, if it relieves the pain to have me hold your foot, I'll sit here in the sun all day—if you'll bring the rim of your hat over a little—but, as for the thorn, it has been out this ten minutes."
She gave him a sudden push and darted away. He followed laughing, admonishing her against another thorn. But she deigned no answer. Coming to the bee-hives, she stopped a moment to watch the busy swarm, and Dick stole up beside her. She turned pettishly, and he said, insinuatingly:
"Toothache?"
"You know, Dick, you're too trying for anything—holding my foot there like a ninny in the hot sun. You haven't a thimbleful of sense."
"Well, now we'll test these propositions, as Jack does, by syllogisms. Let me see. All men are trying. Dick Perley is a man: therefore he is trying."
"No; your premise—isn't that what you call it?—is wrong. Dick Perley is only a boy."
"I'll be nineteen in January next."
"Well?"
"Well, your father was married at nineteen. You've said it yourself,
Rosa, and thought it greatly to his credit—at least Vint does."