“I’m going to fish, Harry. You can come if you want to,” said she, turning briskly on her heel.
She wore that day a cap and dress of navy blue trimmed with bands of gilt braid. Harry was dressed in brown, and as he bobbed along behind her he resembled a dorbug chasing a butterfly.
“Here’s a hook with a baby crawfish on it, Harry. You may have that,” she said, with an excited air.
Then, having selected a second baited hook for herself, she skipped along the wharf, swinging her line. This was something worth while, to fish on her own account, without Molly or Kirke at her elbow to cry out,—
“Take care, Weezy, don’t stick the hook into you. Take care, Weezy, don’t fall overboard.” She hated “don’ts.” She was vexed now to hear Harry calling out, yards behind her,—
“Don’t go so fast, Weezy, I’m hawful scared!”
He had reached a broad crack that yawned between the planks, and there he stood trembling till Weezy danced back to him.
“O Harry, before I’d be such a baby! Come along, I’ll lead you.”
But once having seen the waves tossing beneath that dreadful crack, Harry could not be persuaded to cross it; and much against her will Weezy stayed beside him, and fished near the shore.
“You can hold on to the post, Harry,” she said generously. “I don’t want it, I’m not afraid.”