"Kids!" she sputters. "I think you're perfectly horrid, so there!"
"Stick to it," says I. "Makes me feel better satisfied with myself."
"Redhead!" says she, runnin' her tongue out.
"Yes, clear to the roots," says I, "and the tint didn't come out of a bottle, either."
"I don't care," says she. "All the girls do it."
"Your bunch, maybe," says I; "but there's a few that don't."
"Old sticks, yes," says she. "I'm glad you like that kind. You're as bad as Mummah."
"Is that the worst you can say of me?" says I. "How that would please Mother!"
Oh, sure, quite a homelike little spat we had, passin' the left handers back and forth—and inside of five minutes she has made it all up again and is holdin' out her hand for the last gumdrop.
"You're silly; but you're rather nice, after all," says she, poutin' her lips at me.