“Hurting! I mean to hurt you! What right--what business--had you to go meddling with my dory, at all? Just because you’re a rich girl you think you’re privileged! The little boat Iver gave me--t-turning her into a guy!”
“You made a freak of her yourself!”
“She was mine. I could do what I liked with her. You know how I hate people to--to fool with anything belonging to me!... And this----”
The jealous speech snapped explosively.
“There--there’s somebody in that sand-pocket with you! Who is it?”
“Only--me!” clucked Little Owl very deprecatingly, thrusting a touzled head over the mound. “We--we didn’t think that you’d get mad, like this, fly up in the air--clap your wings an’ crow--hiss--positively hiss!” in a half-cowed whimper.
“Yes, and peck, too!” savagely. “I’ll get even with you both! I’ll punish--find some way of punishing you! I’ll leave camp to-morrow--if you don’t!”
The anger in the injured one’s breast--fed by the raveled fluff of weariness strewing the day’s end--now leaped to wild exaggeration, like the little boat’s disguise, which had passed from camouflage to caricature.
“If I could have my way----” Sara fairly ground her teeth, confronting the wooden bead-eye. “If I could only have my way, I’d----”
But what figure was rising from the dim, dark sands beyond the dory? What figure bestrode it, like Hercules mastering the many-headed water-monster?