Harry eyed it sharply.
“Where’s the howl?”
“On the inside. Don’t you see, Harry?”
“That? That isn’t a howl. It hasn’t any ’ead, Weezy.”
“Why, yes, it has, Harry. I think it has a good head, a very good head indeed.”
What did Harry mean by finding fault with her lovely shell? For a moment Weezy was too vexed to remember that he was her company.
By this time the others had passed beyond the ledge which shut off the beach from the rocky cove, and Harry and Weezy were alone on the sandy shore. Before them was the ocean, behind them the high bluff, climbed by a wooden stairway. Near the foot of this stairway stood the wharf where the children had just been fishing.
Weezy looked back at the wharf regretfully. She wished that she had stayed there, instead of walking on the tiresome beach with a little boy only six years old,—a tiny boy that didn’t like her owl shells!
Why shouldn’t she go back now to the wharf? Nobody had said she mustn’t; and if she should go that minute nobody could say it, because there was nobody to see her. She would catch a big herring all her own self, that she would, and make everybody stare.
Weezy’s eyes sparkled like the waves in the sunlight, her cheeks glowed like the beach pea-blossoms at her feet.