“But I don’t like to sit with her, though,” said Dotty to Tate. “I don’t think she’s very respectiful.”
“I don’t think she is, either,” responded Tate, rolling those eyes of hers, which, Dotty said, looked like little bits of balls of gray stocking-yarn, with a black pin in the middle. “I don’t think she is, either, and I know why.”
“Why she isn’t respectiful?” said Dotty.
“Yes; you tell me why you think so, and then I’ll tell you why I think so.”
“Well, ’cause,” said Dotty, “her mother sells locker beer, and snips with a thimble, and keeps such a dog; and then they—O, I don’t know what; but they don’t seem very respectiful at that house. Now you tell why.”
“I think it’s because there’s so much dirt on her dresses,” said Tate, lowering her voice; “and that’s what I always thought.”
“There isn’t any more dirt on her dresses than there is on her aprons,” rejoined Dotty, “and not quite so much; but any way, I don’t want to sit with her, and she keeps me whispering just as much as you do.”
“Nor I don’t like to sit with that Dice Prosser,” said Tate; “she’s just like a rubber baby.”
“Look here, Tate: you and I are the best kind of friends.”
“Yes, indeed, Dotty Dimple.”