“Um—” the boy snapped his small mouth together impressively, “she fell over the stove, she an’ the baby, but—”
“Oh, Polly, there’s a baby!” screamed Phronsie, coming out suddenly from the folds of Polly’s brown gown.
“Hain’t you got a baby?” asked the boy.
“No,” said Phronsie, “and I want one, I do.”
“Huh—where do you live not to have a baby?” said the boy, in supreme contempt, and he swung on one dirty bare foot to come round again to stare at Phronsie with all his might.
“Oh, the poor thing,” said Polly, thinking of that dreadful fall over the stove, “but I’m so glad the baby wasn’t hurt.”
“And I want the baby,” cried Phronsie, excitedly tugging at Polly’s hand. “I want it now, please, Polly.”
“Come this way. I’m takin’ care of her,” said the boy, with an important air, striding off to the old shed, and Polly and Phronsie hurried after to find in an old box on top of a folded calico quilt, a small creature with very thin cheeks and big eyes gazing at them under a thatch of tangled black hair. She had something up at her mouth clutched in both hands, at which she was gnawing busily.
“Oh—oh!” screamed Phronsie, rushing over to the box, and stretching out both hands; “isn’t she be-yewtiful! I want her, I do.”
“Don’t, Phronsie,” cried Polly, trying to pull her away, but as well try to stop the wind. Phronsie was down on her knees by the box with both small arms around the baby, who immediately dropped her choice morsel and then roared because she couldn’t get it.