Weezy flirted her sunny head in high disdain, while Kirke and Molly exchanged amused glances.
“Do you think so, Weezy? Well, may be he did duck on purpose. I mean to try that ducking business myself this morning. Whatever you do, little sister, don’t grab me around the neck; you might pull me under.”
Kirke spoke in jest. He could already swim quite well, for he had learned the art a year or two before in the East. Molly and Weezy, on the contrary, had only taken three lessons.
“Hoh, Kirke! I couldn’t pull you under. Of course not, ’cause you’re biggerer’n I am,” said Weezy, stopping to watch a small urchin scooping ovens in the sand.
He was a plump little boy in “brownie” overalls, which Molly insisted made him look like a fat, twisted doughnut.
“He looks like Harry Hobbs,” responded Kirke, hurrying Weezy on towards the bath-house.
Molly felt a sudden twinge of conscience.
“That makes me think, Kirke, what shall we do about Harry? If he comes, he’ll have to come next week with the Bradstreets. Mamma has left it to us, you know, to ask him or not, as we please.”
Kirke whistled, and kicked aside a tangle of seaweed.
“Oh! we might as well invite the young Britisher, I suppose.”