“Is that so?” cried Jasper, freeing one set of fingers to get the others in a worse plight. “Ow; it’s all sticking to my other hand. I’ve just spoiled it, Polly.” He held out the little wad hanging to his thumb and finger and gazed at Polly in dismay.
“Oh, no, it isn’t,” said Polly, picking it off to set it on the bread-board; “it’ll come as good as can be after you get some more flour on your fingers, and—”
“Your biscuits’s burning!” screamed Joel, sniffing. “They are—burning—Polly!”
But she didn’t need this second shout to make her run and fling the oven door open, Jasper hurrying after, his fingers all over dough, and all the others following.
“O dear, dear!” he mourned. “Now I made you stop. Oh, Polly, I am so sorry!” kneeling down beside her. “Here, let me pull them out.”
“Oh, Jasper, you’ll burn your hands,” she cried. But he already had the tin plate out; “whew!” dropping it just in time on the old table.
“Oh, did you burn you?” cried Polly. “Oh, what would Mamsie say to have such a thing happen to any one spending the day at the Little Brown House! O dear me!” She was quite gone in distress.
“Only just the veriest bit,” said Jasper, blowing on his thumb. “There; that’s all right now. Don’t worry, Polly.”
And Ben was as much distressed to have anything happen to Jasper. “Come over and stick it under the pump,” he said, leading the way.
“Don’t want to,” said Jasper; “it’s all right now, I tell you, Ben.”