She would not ask him what amused him, and presently he said, “Excuse me.”
“Why?” asked Berty, with preternatural gravity.
“Well, well,” he stuttered, “I don’t know, but I guess it isn’t good manners for one person to laugh when the other isn’t.”
“Laugh on,” said Berty, benevolently, “the whole river is before you.”
The Mayor did laugh on, and rowed at the same time, until at last he was obliged to take his hands from the oars, and get out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes.
Berty’s face was hidden from him. She had picked up a huge illustrated paper from the bottom of the boat, and her whole head was concealed by it. But the paper was shaking, and he had an idea that she, too, was laughing.
His suspicion was correct, for presently the paper dropped, and he saw that his companion was in a convulsion of girlish laughter.
“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, taking away the handkerchief that she had been stuffing in her mouth, “it is too funny. You hate the sight of me, and write notes to avoid me, and then go lose your boat on a desert island, and have to be rescued by me. Oh! it is too delicious!”