“What did you prick it in for, then?” continued Oscar.
“Because we didn’t know any better, then,” said Ronald; “but Aunt Fanny says the heathen prick ink into their hands, and I don’t want to be a heathen.”
“Well, if that isn’t a great idea!” exclaimed Oscar, relapsing into another hearty laugh. “I suppose you think I’m a heathen, then, don’t you?” he continued. “Well, if I’m a heathen, I guess there are a good many others around full as bad. I never heard any body say there was any harm in pricking a little Indian ink into your hand, and I don’t believe there is, if Aunt Fanny does say so.”
“She didn’t say there was any harm in it,” replied Ronald. “She said she didn’t like it, because it was doing as the heathen did.”
“So we ‘do as the heathen do’ when we eat, but I shan’t give up eating on that account,” observed Oscar.
“Nor I, either,” said Otis, who was very willing to be re-converted to the tattooing process. “I mean to finish my star—what’s the use of trying to wash it out?”
“Star! do you call that thing a star?” inquired Oscar, with a look of contempt.
“But I haven’t finished it,” meekly interposed Otis.
“No, I shouldn’t think you had,” added Oscar. “It looks more like a spider than a star. If I couldn’t make a better star than that with my eyes shut, I’d put my head under a bushel basket.”
With this self-sufficient remark, Oscar walked off, and Ronald and Otis, having come to the conclusion that their stars were beyond the reach of soap and sand, also left the room. It happened that Mrs. Page and Miss Lee were sitting in an adjoining room, and overheard the conversation just related.