“Your spring? No, I didn’t know you had a spring,” answered Nan. “But I thought maybe you might have a well, and—”
“I ain’t got a well; but I’ve a fine deep spring, an’ the water’s as cold as ice. But, say, look here! Did you ever throw stones at my frog?” The old woman asked this question sharply.
“Your frog! No!” gasped Nan, wondering whether or not she might have to do with a crazy person. “I never saw your frog,” she added.
“Oh, all right then,” said the woman, more gently. “Girls ain’t so bad as boys. It’s the pesky boys that’s allers throwin’ stones at my frog. He’s the biggest bullfrog you ever saw. Him an’ me’s friends, an’ I never let anybody get a drink from my spring that has throwed stones at my frog. Seein’ as how you ain’t, you can have all the water you want. Come, I’ll show you where the spring is.”
She started to lead the way down a weed-tangled path at the side of the house, but Nan drew back. She did not exactly like this old woman with that queer story about a giant frog.
“I’ll—I’ll go call my father,” said Nan. “He’ll get the water in a pail, thank you. I’ll call my father,” and she turned away.
“Your father never throwed stones at my frog, did he?” demanded the old woman sharply. Nan decided she was so queer that she must be a hermit—living all alone in the half-tumbled-down hut.
“Of course not!” exclaimed Nan. “Daddy wouldn’t throw stones at any animal.”
“Wa-all, mebby he did when he was a boy. But I’ll let him get some water from my spring,” said the old woman.
Before Nan could reach the swinging gate she heard her father calling, and Bert, too, added his voice, saying: