“And I'm thirteen,” returned Della. “I'm going to tell you a secret—just between you and me, and Pussy there,” she added, looking down at me as I walked under her hammock.
“Very well,” said Mary excitedly. “What is it?”
“You're going to be my second-best friend. I've got a best one, but I guess I can pass her on to another girl, then I'll have you for first best.”
“That's lovely,” said Mary. “I'll be true to you, and you'll be true to me.”
“We'll have to write our names in gore,” murmured Della in a blood-curdling voice.
“In gore?” repeated Mary. “Whose gore?”
“Yours and mine. You take a pin and scratch your arm, then when the blood comes, you get a pen, and write your name and your best friend's name on a piece of paper. Then you fold it, and wear it in a little silk bag round your neck next your heart.”
“We never do that in Boston,” said Mary in dismay. “And I wouldn't scratch anybody's arm with a pin for the world. Why, you might get a germ in it.”
“What's that?” inquired Della.
“A germ is a microbe, I think,” replied Mary.