"Or little girls either? Not much; but Annie and I mean to have a good sail before long."
"Annie and I!"
Jenny's pert little nose seemed to turn up more than ever as she walked away, for she had not beaten her old playfellow quite as badly as usual. There were several sharp things on the very tip of her tongue, but she was too much put out and vexed to try to say them just then. As for Dabney, a "sail" was not so wonderful a thing for him, and that Sunday was therefore a good deal like all others; but Ford Foster's mind was in a sort of turmoil all day. In fact, just after tea, that evening, his father asked him:
"What book is that you are reading, Ford?"
"Captain Cook's 'Voyages.'"
"And the other in your lap?"
"'Robinson Crusoe.'"
"Well, you might have worse books than they are, even for Sunday, that's a fact, though you ought to have better; but which of them do you and Dabney Kinzer mean to imitate to-morrow?"
"Crusoe," promptly responded Ford.
"I see. And so you've got Dick Lee to go along as your Man-Friday."