A Little Florida Lady Part 4

The wharf extended far out into the river, and near the end of it, Beth came suddenly upon a boy with a loaf of bread in his hand. She stopped undecided, and looked at the boy. He was, perhaps, three or four years older than Beth. His hair was as light as hers was dark. His eyes were blue, and his naturally fair skin was tanned. He looked up at Beth for an instant, and frowned.

"What are you doing here, little un? I don't like girls to bother me.

Go away."

If there was one thing above another that made Beth's temper rise, it was to be called "little one," and to be twitted upon being a girl.

She felt like making up a face at this boy, but, instead, she a.s.sumed as much dignity as she could command.

"I won't go away. This is my place. What are you doing here?"

The boy laughed incredulously. "Your place, indeed. The Marlowes own this place, and they are away. Good-bye."

This was too much for her. She stamped her foot in rage. "I won't go.

My papa bought this place to-day."

He looked a little interested. "Indeed? What's your name?"

"Elizabeth Davenport;" she said 'Elizabeth' to be dignified, "and really my father owns the place."

"If what you say is so, I'd better go," he said somewhat sheepishly.

She relented. "Oh, I'll let you stay."

"I'm not sure I want to. I don't like girls. They're 'fraid-cats."

"I'm no 'fraid-cat," and her eyes snapped.

"How can you prove it, Elizabeth?"

"Don't call me that. I hate to be called Elizabeth."

"But you told me that was your name."

"Everybody calls me Beth. If you're nice, you may call me Beth."

"All right. How are you going to prove you're no 'fraid-cat, Eli--Beth?"

She pondered a moment. "'Fraid-cats cry when they're hurt, don't they?"

"Of course. So do girls."

"I don't cry when I'm hurt," and she looked triumphant as if that settled the matter. "Once when I was a little bit of a girl----"

"You're pretty small now."

"I'm a big girl, and you shouldn't interrupt. Well, once Marian----"

"Who's she?"

"She's my sister. Well, I wanted to light the gas, but Marian said I was too small, but I'd not listen. I jumped up on a rocker to light the gas. The chair rocked and, I fell against the windowsill. Marian screamed, 'Beth's killed. She's covered with blood!'"

"Were you really?"

"Yes." Beth felt she was arguing her case well. "Mamma thought I just had the nose bleed, but what do you s'pose? I had two mouths."

The boy's eyes grew big. "Two mouths--how jolly. How did it happen?"

"The window-sill had cut me right across here," she pointed to the s.p.a.ce just below her nose. "The doctor took five st.i.tches, and when it healed, took them out again. It hurt very much, but I didn't cry a bit."

"Didn't it leave a scar on your face?"

She threw back her head.

"There, do you see that little white line under my nose? You can hardly see it now."

The boy examined the spot critically. Then he changed the subject.

"Where did you live before you came here?"

"New York."

"Did you like it there?"

"No, it was horrid. I hated to be dressed up and sent for a walk."

He looked incredulous. "Most girls like to be dressed up."

"I don't."

"Don't you like to be told you are a pretty little girl with nice clothes?"

"No, I don't."

He sniffed disdainfully. "Oh, go long. I don't believe that."

Beth grew very much in earnest, and thought of another little ill.u.s.tration.

"Truth 'pon honor. One day a strange lady in a store put her hand on my head, and said: 'What a pretty little girl.' It made me mad, so that I just grunted and made up a face at her. My mamma said, 'Why, Beth, that is very naughty.' I said, 'Well, mamma, what business is it of hers whether I am pretty or not? It isn't my fault if I am pretty and people shouldn't bother me.'"

The boy laughed. "I believe I rather like you, Beth, but I only have your word for it that you are not like other girls. I have a big mind to try you. Shall I?"

She was a little afraid to consent, but she was ashamed to show it. So she delayed matters by asking "How?"

The boy drew down his face until it was very long, and when he spoke it was in an awe-inspiring whisper.

"Swear never to tell what I tell you. Repeat after me, 'Harvey Baker----'"

"Is that your name?"

"Yes--don't interrupt me. 'Harvey Baker, if I tell what you show me, I hope I may be forever doomed and tortured.'"