“‘Treasure Island’ is a mighty good make-believe,” remarked Bobby, after a short silence. “I shouldn’t have had any objections to living that story right along.”
“I’ve never read it,” said Polly, with a little sigh. “I’ve never read much of anything till now. Is ‘Treasure Island’ as beautiful as the ‘Snow Queen’?” she asked, doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem as if it could be.”
“Beautiful isn’t the word for it,” said Bobby, turning his spectacled eyes toward her for a moment. “It’s wild, and murderous in places, and it carries you along with it. So does ‘Kidnapped.’ That’s what you want of a book. I never can make up my mind whether I’d rather have been David Balfour or Napoleon. If I had my choice, I believe I’d have to draw lots.”
“There are places in the woods where Miss Arctura and I went one day that would be splendid for make-believes, I should think,” ventured Polly, anxious to please this remarkable boy. “There are rocks that you could hide behind and jump out at me. I shouldn’t be a bit afraid—truly, I shouldn’t!”
“We’ll see,” said Bobby, “only to-morrow’s Sunday, you know, and, of course, we have to go to church—and, anyway, I couldn’t be as fierce about it as if you were a boy. I couldn’t knock a girl over, or pitch into her and wrest her sword from her grasp. That’s where the fun comes in.”
“I thought they said you didn’t care much about play,” said Polly, much surprised.
“I don’t care for ball, or marbles, or any of those things,” said Bobby, scornfully. “I’d rather read, any day. But there’s a fellow at home, George Rogers—just twelve, my age, you know—and he and I play a robber band piece that we’ve made out of different books. I can tell you it’s worth seeing. Only, I suppose, ’twould scare a girl blue.”
“It would not scare me blue.” said Polly, shaking her curls. “I should like it!”
“Eleanor never minded it,” said the boy, softly, to himself, but Polly heard him, and her heart beat high with hope as he took off his spectacles, rubbed them for a minute with a big, white handkerchief, and then adjusted them carefully to his nose, as Uncle Blodgett always did when preparing to read the newspaper.
“Perhaps he’ll think I’m something like Eleanor, after all,” said Polly in her heart. She hesitated for a moment and then leaned over until her head was almost against the boy’s shoulder, as he sat gazing into the fire.