“Of course I’m not telling you true, live things,” retorted Polly in her gayest tone; “I’m making ’em up out of my head as I go along. And a person could have cake every day with pink on top of ’em, if there was enough to go around.”
“Oh!” sighed little Davie, clasping his hands with a long sigh.
Phronsie never took her eyes from Polly’s face, but she said not a word.
“If you keep interrupting all the while, Joe, Polly can’t get on with her story,” said [Ben], who [was mending Mother Pepper’s washboard] over in the corner, with one ear out for the narration proceeding under such difficulties.
[Ben was mending Mother Pepper’s washboard.]
“Well, go on,” said Joel ungraciously, his mouth watering for the cake with pink on top; “but I don’t b’lieve Johnny ever had all that, every day and Sunday.”
“Well, you must believe it,” said Polly, shaking her brown head at him; “or I’m not going to sit here telling you stories. Joey Pepper, you must act as if you believed every single word I say, else you won’t be polite.”
“Oh, I’ll believe it,” exclaimed Joel in alarm at the thought of Polly’s stories ceasing. “I wish I had some of the cake with the pink on top, now, I do. Tell on, Polly.”