“Katy,” whispered Billie.
“Merciful Mither! And phwat is it? Ye scart me,” and the girl sat back on her heels and looked at Billie with round, wide eyes.
“We are great friends of Mrs. Green and we have come to dust her books and—ahem—do a few little things. Is she still asleep?”
“Yis, and the master was after saying she must not be distoorbed, not on no account.”
“Of course she must not be! That is why we have come to dust the things. We think she looks so tired.”
“And so she is, the scwate lamb; but she do fly around so, and she do cook up so mooch. I tell her that she thinks more of her man’s insides thin she do of her own outsides.”
“Well, Katy, we want you to let us have a broom and a wall brush. We brought our own aprons and rags,” and Billie pressed a round, hard something into Katy’s hand. It was not so large as a church door nor so deep as a well, but it served to get the Irish girl up off of her run-down heels; and in a trice the coveted broom and wall brush were in possession of the three conspirators, as well as a stepladder, which they decided would be needful.
“Don’t say a word to Mrs. Green, Katy,—now remember. We are going to work very quietly and hope to finish before she gets downstairs. We don’t want her to know who did it, but we mean to get it all done before noon,” said Jo, rolling up her sport shirtsleeves and disclosing muscular arms, that showed what athletics had done for her and what she could do for athletics.
“Where must we begin, Thelma?” asked Billie, who was as willing as could be but knew no more about cleaning than a hog does about holidays, Jo declared.
“Begin at the top,” laughed Thelma, tying up her yellow head in a great towel and rolling up her sleeves.