"Well—she's took my clothes with her," wailed the head, and jerked itself within, while the door was slammed behind it.
Split walked up the stoop.
"Jack," she called, her mouth at the keyhole, "who took 'em? Your mother? Why? But she can't keep you in that way. Never mind. What have you got on?"
The door was opened an inch or two, and the head started to look out. But at sight of Split so near it withdrew in such turtle-like alarm that she laughed aloud.
"What're you laughing at?" growled the boy.
"What's that you got on?" said she.
"My—my mother's wrapper."
A peal of laughter burst from the Indian princess. But it ceased suddenly. For the door was thrown open with such violence that it made Jane Cody's wax flowers shake apprehensively under their glass bell, and a figure stalked out such as might haunt a dream—long, gaunt, awkward, inescapably boyish, yet absurdly feminine, now that the dark calico wrapper flapped at its big, awkward heels and bound and hindered its long legs.
Split looked from the heavily shod feet to the round, short-shaven black head, and a premonitory giggle shook her.
"Don't you laugh—don't you dare laugh at me! Don't you, Split—will you?" The phrases burst from him, a threat at the beginning, an appeal at the end.