“What will be on it?” asked Mr. Jimson, eagerly.
“The most awful hobgoblin you ever saw. I used to draw beauties at school. When you see this hobgoblin you won’t be able to think of anything else. Just fix your eyes on his terrible eyes, and you will sit down in the most natural way possible.”
“Maybe I will,” he said, with a sigh, “but I doubt it—you’re a good girl, anyway.”
“Oh, no. I’m not, Mr. Mayor, begging your pardon. I’m only trying to be one.”
“Well, I’ve got to go,” said her companion, reluctantly. “I wish I could skip that stived-up office and go out on the river with you.”
“I wish you could,” said Berty, frankly. “But I’ve got work to do, too. I want every clergyman in the town to be present to-morrow. Have your speech short, will you, for it will probably be a hot day.”
“All right,” said the Mayor. “Good-bye,” and he trotted away.