“I don’t think it’s very intrusting,” Gertie interrupted plaintively.
“Why, Gertie Halford, you said you just loved it last night.”
Gertie could not deny the accusation. She didn’t quite realize herself how very different the story seemed when listened to from the depths of a cushioned chair in a cozy, brightly lighted room and out here under the dripping bushes, chilled and frightened. Even the old umbrellas were getting soaked. Katy had to shift the precious book a time or two to avoid the drip.
Gertie returned to the charge.
“I guess the Swiss family got awful tired of their tree house if it rained like this. I am never going to play tree house again, Katy.”
“’Fraid cat! ’fraid cat! I think it’s lots of fun. Don’t you, Jane?”
Chicken Little had begun to fuss about restlessly, shifting from one cramped position to another. She did not answer Katy’s question right away.
“I guess it’s most noon,” she finally evaded diplomatically. “Mother said I must be home by noon.”
But Katy saw through this flimsy excuse.
“Oh, you’re backing out! ’Tisn’t anywhere near noon—you’re just making an excuse to go home. I bet you’re ’fraid too.”