As soon as he could regain his breath, he responded
as a gallant Englishman should, and the scene went on smoothly,
with many a coquettish bit of by-play on Polly's part, and a stern
resolve, on the captain's side, to reduce it all to the footing of
high tragedy.
"That went well!" said Polly, when they had reached their closing
tableau, with John Smith on his knees, kissing the French kid shoe
of Pocahontas. "I do hope it will go all right next week, for
mamma says we may each invite four people, and I don't want to
fail."
"We're going to have it here, after all, are we?" asked Alan.
"Yes. Florence wanted it, but her mother wasn't willing, so we're
going to use the library for a stage, and put the people in the
parlor. It will hold ever so many, that way. Tuesday night we're
going to rehearse it there."
"I wish we could try our parts there, now," said Alan.
"Why not do it?" asked Polly. "We can, just as well as not, for
there isn't a soul in the house but ourselves. Come on." And she
led the way to the head of the stairs.
"Sure there isn't anybody there?" asked. Alan.
"Nobody, I am certain."
"All right, here goes, then." And followed by Polly, Alan raced
down the stairs, singing at the top of his lungs,--
"'Oh, my wife and my dear children!
Oh, the deaths they both did die!
One got lost, and one got drownded,
And one got choked on pumpkin pie!'
Hi-yi-whoop-_ee_!" he added, with a threatening war-whoop, as
he opened the parlor door and dashed in.
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