Mrs. King was shelling peas, and Sarah sat down in the cretonne-covered rocking chair next to her. There was one other person on the porch—a stout gentleman, stretched out in an arm chair, sound asleep. His face was covered with a white silk handkerchief which partially hid his round, bald head.
"Do you like the country?" asked Mrs. King, glancing toward her small visitor while her clever, quick fingers sent a continuous shower of peas rattling into the pan in her lap.
"Oh, yes, I like it," nodded Sarah with enthusiasm. "I like it lots better than Eastshore and going to school. I wouldn't mind living in the country for always."
"But you'd have to go to school if you lived in the country," said Mrs. King mildly. "You can't get away from lesson-books, no matter where you go."
"Not in Africa?" suggested Sarah who never disdained an argument.
"I've never been in Africa," Mrs. King replied, "so I can't tell you positively. But my guess is all the children who aren't natives, have to be educated."
"What do the children who are natives do?" asked Sarah.
Mrs. King considered.
"I imagine they go around without any clothes on and the tigers eat them," she decided, recalling to mind several doleful pictures she had seen in an old geography.
Sarah shivered, not in sympathy with the scantily clad children, but because of the tigers mentioned.