“Many? The beach was lined with ‘tourers,’ as Weezy calls them; and everybody saw that little scapegrace running by on one white leg and one black leg. Oh, it was killing!”
“Did Weezy care?” asked Pauline, laughing till the tears came.
“Yes, Polly; I’m happy to say that she did—for about five minutes.”
“I wonder what her ladyship is up to now,” said Pauline, striking into the homeward path.
“Oh, I suppose she and Olga are still petting that sick chicken.”
Molly had guessed aright. She and Pauline presently surprised the two children playing hospital, in their favorite retreat under a live-oak. Dressed as a nurse, with a white kerchief pinned across her shoulders, Olga was holding the invalid chicken tenderly in her lap, while Weezy, also in a white kerchief, was trying to tempt its appetite with a preparation of Mellin’s Food.
“It’ll only eat the leastest bit of a mite, Molly,” said Weezy in a hopeless voice; “and it won’t open its little eyes.”
“That must be because it is weak, Nurse,” said Molly, joining in the play. “I think it needs a tonic.”
“Some wine might do it good, Nurse,” added Pauline.
“Oh, yes; some wine. That’s what it is crying for, maybe,” returned Weezy eagerly. “Please give me four teaspoonfuls for him, Pauline.”