She had on no clothes at all, and the river-water dripped off her smooth, plump, little person.
"She's shivering, the poor little toad!" said Mark.
He fetched the blue coolie coat, which hung, dry, over the stern. Measuring his protégée with a judicial eye, he cut its sleeves jaggedly with Chun Lon's knife till they were of a length more suited to the baby's small arms.
"She's muddyish," he said, pausing in his tailoring. "Mop her up a bit, will you, Alan?"
"If you think I'm going to play nursemaid to your heathen infant, you 're mistaken," said Alan, pushing the Sham-Poo's nose out from the bank.
"Bosh!" said Mark. He did the mopping himself, and Ping-Pong curled her toes and gurgled.
"Oh, you like being mopped up, do you!" Mark inquired of her. "Here, stick in your fist. This is an elegant garment I've made for you, Miss."
Happed up in the abbreviated blue linen coat, Ping-Pong did present a quaint figure.
