“Why?” she cried, her big eyes opening. “I'm not sick, am I?”
“Sick? No, no! Course not, course not. What would you want to be sick for? But you ought to get warm and dry right off, I s'pose, and your duds are all up to the depot. Say, what does—what did your ma used to do when you felt—er—them icicles and things?”
“She changed my clothes and rubbed me. And, if I was VERY wet she put me to bed sometimes.”
“Bed? Sure! why, yes, indeed. Bed's a good place to keep off icicles. There's my bedroom right in there. You could turn in just as well as not. Bunk ain't made yet, but I can shake it up in no time. Say—er—er—you can undress yourself, can't you?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Course I can! I'm most eight.”
“Sure you are! Don't act a mite babyish. All right, you set still till I shake up that bunk.”
He entered the chamber, his own, opening from the sitting room, and proceeded, literally, to “shake up” the bed. It was not a lengthy process and, when it was completed, he returned to find his visitor already divested of the coat and standing before the stove.
“I guess perhaps you'll have to help undo me behind,” observed the young lady. “This is my best dress and I can't reach the buttons in the middle of the back.”
Captain Cy scratched his head. Then he clumsily unbuttoned the wet waist, glancing rather sheepishly at the window to see if anyone was coming.
“So this is your best dress, hey?” he asked, to cover his confusion. It was obviously not very new, for it was neatly mended in one or two places.