“My shoes go quish, quish, every step I take,” complained Weezy, pressing forward with lagging feet.
“Wait, we’ll carry you, Weezy. Kirke and I will make a queen’s chair and carry you,” exclaimed Paul.
“The boys bore the child onward.”
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“To be sure we will, little water-soaked girl; why didn’t I think of it?” returned Kirke, wheeling about to clasp hands with his comrade.
Mrs. Rowe lifted Weezy into the seat thus formed, and the boys bore the child onward. The others followed.
“This doesn’t look much like Weezy’s hair, does it, Pauline?” said Molly, wringing the moist locks that straggled down her little sister’s back. “It looks more like seaweed than hair.”
“Or more like wet sewing-silk, Molly. Not a speck of curl in it.”
“You must have gone to the very bottom, Weezy,” said Kirke tremulously, as they neared The Old and New. “How on earth did you manage to paddle out?”