The professor, with his glasses, his white helmet and tennis-shirt, and
a butterfly-net hung over his shoulder, was quite Oriental and
picturesque; while Morton, with a broad straw hat on his cleanly shaven
head, and a blue blouse belted with leather, enjoyed the thought that he
looked like a cowboy, and perhaps he did: I've seen cowboys who did not
look half so well.
At any rate, he felt as free and joyous as one, and rode away with a
ringing cheer, echoed shrilly by Molly, who was wild to go herself, and
could only be appeased by the promise of a real picnic with the
Hoffstotts in the near future.
"Oh, dear!" she said, on the verge of tears, as the long boat-cart swung
out of sight around the corner, and was lost to view, "it's dreadful to
think I've always got to be a girl, and I may have to live a hundred
years."
"Well, my dear, console yourself, then," replied Sara, "for you won't be
a girl even ten years longer."
"I won't?"
"No."
"Now, Sara Olmstead, how do you know that? Oh, yes, you're joking me,
somehow; I can see by your eyes, for of course nobody knows when I'm
going to stop living."
"How old are you, Molly?"
"Why, I'll be thirteen in eleven months."
"That is," with a laugh," you were twelve last month; now in ten years
how old will you be?"
"Let's see," bringing her fingers into play, "aught's an aught, and
two's two," marking that down with her index finger in her left palm,
"then one and one is two, why, that's twenty-two, isn't it?"
"Really, Molly, I'm ashamed of you to be so slow in adding.
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