“I haven't finished,” said Polly, snipping away vigorously, and longing to get back to mamsie. “Wait till they're done; then they'll be good—as good as can be!”
“And it's bad enough to have to make them,” put in Jasper, flinging aside his book and rolling over to watch them, “without having to be found fault with every second, Percy.”
“They're too big,” said Percy, surveying them critically, and then looking at his boat.
“Oh, that corner's coming off,” cried Polly cheerfully, giving it a sharp cut that sent it flying on the floor. “And they won't be too big when they're done, Percy, all hemmed and everything. There,” as she held one up for inspection, “that's just the way I used to make Ben's and mine, when we sailed boats.”
“Is it?” asked Percy, looking with more respect at the piece of cloth Polly was waving alluringly before him. “Just exactly like it, Polly?”
“Yes,” said Polly, laying it down again for a pattern—“oh, how does this go—oh—that's it, there—yes, this is just exactly like Bensie's and mine—that was when I was ever so little; and then I used to make Joel's and Davie's afterwards and—”
“And were theirs just like this?” asked Percy, laying his hand on the sail she had finished cutting out.
“Pre-cisely,” said Polly, with a pin in her mouth. “Just as like as two peas, Percy Whitney.”
“Then I like them,” cried Percy, veering round and regarding them with great satisfaction—as Van bounded in with a torrent of complaints, and great disappointment in every line of his face.
“Oh now, that's too bad!” he cried, seeing Polly fold up the remaining bits of cloth, and pick up the scraps on the floor. “And you've gone and let her cut out every one of 'em, and never told me a word! You're a mean, old hateful thing, Percy Whitney!”