“Oh, dear, Polly! you won’t be here but just seven days. And I haven’t entertained you at all. What shall we do this afternoon? Shall we go to the bath-house?”
“I’d rather fish,” answered Pauline promptly. “If there’s anything I dote on, it’s fishing.”
“I want to fish,” cried Harry Hobbs, from the corner of the veranda. “Can’t I fish?”
The little newcomer was tired of stringing sea-shells with Weezy. Sewing was girls’ work.
“Don’t you and Weezy want to dig in the sand?” asked Molly, in her sweetest tones. “I’ll find you the dearest little pails and shovels.”
“I can dig at ’ome,” responded Harry, with a grieved look. But he did not tease Molly. He had promised his Aunt Ruth that he wouldn’t be troublesome.
“Oh! let him go fishing, Molly,” said Pauline, stepping out of the hammock. “And let’s ask the boys too. They’ll take care of him.”
“If they can leave their stilts, Pauline. They’re stalking round the back yard like—like”—
“Like storks, of course,” concluded Pauline, leaning over the veranda rail to see the lads better. “Come, boys, won’t you go fishing?”
“Do you want to, Paul?” asked Kirke aside; for was not Paul his especial chum?