“Well, Swickey,—there! I feel that’s off my mind,—I think you’re simply stunning in that costume.”
She laughed happily. “Oh, but you should have seen me when Dave first came to Lost Farm. I had a blue checkered gingham that was—inches too short. I was only fourteen then, and I cried because I didn’t have a new dress. Did Dave ever tell you about the book and the ‘specs’ and the two new dresses he got for me?”
“Nary a word—the dour laddie—but I was in the shop when he got it—and I could just worship that gingham.”
“Really? Well, that’s too bad. I used it for a mop-cloth only the other day. It’s on the mop now.”
“Touché!” exclaimed Wallie, grinning. “I won’t try that again.”
“What does ‘touché’ mean, Mr. Bascomb?”
“Well, different things. One interpretation is ‘touched,’ but ‘bumped’ isn’t stretching it under the circumstances.”
“We must hurry!” she exclaimed. “Dave’s ’way ahead of us. No, there he is, waiting.”
“Here’s where we begin to climb,” he said, as they caught up with him. “Walt, you’d better give me that lunch-bucket. It’s pretty stiff going from now on.”
“Whew! If it’s any stiffer than this,” replied Bascomb, indicating the main trail, “I’m thinking the van will have to wait for the commissary. But I’ll tote the provender, Davy. I’m good for that much, and you’ve got the rods and paddles.”