“Which made her puff and piff,” laughed Ronald.
“No such word as ‘piff,’” objected Lesley.
“It’s just as good as ‘puff,’” answered the youthful rhymester. “Isn’t it, Father?”
Father merely gave an absent-minded murmur, which might have meant either that it was, or that it wasn’t, and touched Jenny Lind lightly with the loop of the reins.
Up flew Jenny’s hind legs, bounce went the children, flat on the floor of the car, and all question of po’try was dropped as they drew up to the storehouse.
CHAPTER II
STUMPY AND THE STOREHOUSE
Stumpy stood in the doorway, waving a greeting to the children, his wooden leg, topped by a crutch-handle, strapped to his side and his black eyes glowing with pleasure.
He limped down the steps to hitch the donkey for the Lightkeeper, patting the children’s heads meantime, as they tumbled about him like frolicsome puppies.
“We’ve-ery come-ery to-ery see-ery you-ery!” cried Lesley, who was accustomed to use the “secret language” with Stumpy.
“Yes, I see you come all right,” smiled Stumpy, “but I no speak your tongue. You go in my house; I be there pretty soon.... Aye, aye, sir, coming!”—this to McLean, who waited for him by the barrels of oil.