“You must be a silly not to know what a boss is.”
“I aren’t no more silly than you are,” said Sibyl. “May I have some bread and butter and jam? I’ll ask you some things about town, and perhaps you can’t answer me. What’s a—what’s a—oh, I’ll think of something real slangy presently; but please don’t talk to me too much while I’m eating, or I’ll spill jam on my money frock.”
“You are a very queer little girl,” said Mabel; but she looked at her now with favor. A child who could talk like Sibyl was likely to be an acquisition.
“What a silly you are,” said Gus. “What did you put on that thing for? We don’t want frilled and laced-up frocks, we want frocks that girls can wear to climb trees in, and——”
“Climb trees! Oh,” cried Sibyl, “are you that sort? Then I’m your girl. Oh, I am glad! My ownest father would be pleased. He likes me to be brave. I’m a hoyden—do you know what a hoyden is? If you want to have a few big larks while I am here, see to ’em quick, for I’m your girl.”
Gus burst into a roar of laughter, and Mabel smiled.
“You are very queer,” she said. “I don’t know whether our governess will like our being with you. You seem to use strange words. We never get into scrapes—we are quite ladylike and good, but we don’t wear grand frocks either. Can’t you take that thing off?”
“I wish I could. I hate it myself.”
“Well, ask your servant to change it.”
“But my nurse hasn’t brought a single shabby frock with me.”