“Very bright, little Miss Weezy, but not the answer,” returned Pauline amid general merriment. “Kirke, you haven’t guessed. Tell me this minute why those Indians are like heavy biscuits?”
“Because”—Kirke thoughtfully squeezed lemon juice upon his sardine—“because every one of them is good for a shot.”
“No, no; you’re far from the mark! Molly, now it’s your turn.”
“Is it because they’re both such a miserable lot?” asked Molly dubiously.
“Oh, you stupid guessers!” Pauline canted her head saucily. “Why, listen now, my children. Those Indians and heavy biscuits are alike because neither have been properly raised.”
“They’re ill-bred, then, aren’t they, just as I said,” retorted Paul, twisting his neck to look at three Indian girls coming toward the car. All wore blankets, not folded, but hanging from their necks by the hems; and their flowing, black hair was straight and coarse, like a horse’s mane.
“Out with your camera, Paul!” said Kirke, while Molly whispered,—
“Do look at their faces, a bright vermilion!”
“From their foreheads down to their chins. What a waste of good paint!” Kirke whispered back.
“Let’s take them something to eat,” said Pauline, gathering up the fragments of the luncheon.