Toby obediently observed his hands, and made a grimace. “They’re as sore as anything. I got some of that paint-remover stuff on them, and dad says I oughtn’t to have. He says maybe the skin will all be gone by tomorrow!”
“That’s lye,” said Arnold.
“What?” Toby stared. “You’d better not let dad hear you say so!”
“Say what?” asked Arnold, in puzzlement, while Phebe laughed and Mr. Murphy chimed in with his absurd chuckle and then hung by his beak from the end of the perch.
“Say what he said was a lie,” answered Toby.
“I didn’t!”
“What did you say, then? Didn’t you say——?”
“He said the paint-remover was lye,” gurgled Phebe. “L-y-e, lye; and so it is, and it’s no wonder your hands are sore. I should think they would be.”
“Ought to be, too,” grumbled Arnold. “Messing around that boat all day long! When are you going to get that nine together, I’d like to know?”
Toby looked penitent, and then, having attempted to put his hands in his pockets with painful results, annoyed. “I’ll find the rest of the fellows today,” he answered. “There’s lots of time.” Then he recovered his good humor and smiled. “Besides, we can beat you fellows with six men any day!”