“Pollio!” said his mother.
Pollio was always ready to run for his hat, but just now he was lost in surprise. Were he and Posy to be cheated out of their visit? He started at once, however, to go after “Lucy-vindy.”
You never saw a worse looking house than the one she lived in. The windows were half glass, half rags: outside stood a tub, a rake with one or two stumpy teeth, an old mop, and a battered tin pail. Hop-clover was seated on the doorstep, mending the skirt of her dress with some blue cotton yarn drawn through a darning-needle. She had never been taught to sew, and was wearing her brass thimble on the wrong finger. Pollio did not know that; but he thought it was funny to use such a monstrous needle, and jerk so hard to get it through the calico.
“What you doing?” said he, leaning over to watch her.
“Oh! the holes are awful: I want to pucker ’em up a little,” replied Hop-clover, pulling with such a jerk that she scratched Pollio’s face.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said she. But it was a mercy she had not put out his eyes.
“Poh! it don’t hurt much: it isn’t as bad as a butcher-knife,” said he, spreading the blood over his cheek, as he rubbed the scratch with his finger. “But, Hop-clover, I want you to go to my house: there’s a man wants to see you.”
“Wants to see me!”
Hop-clover’s eyes were big with wonder.
“Yes. Come, hurry; for Posy and I are going to ride in his chaise,—I guess; and I never saw a chaise.”