body. Delight released her, and they both stood staring at something of red rubber, edged with little white porcelain squares. Whatever it was it was broken. . . .
"Me teeth," said May bleakly. "You've busted me teeth." Her face twitched. Her upper lip was sunken, pitiful. "That Adar's comin' to call on me this afternoon and you've busted me teeth."
Delight, heavy with the catastrophe, picked up the two fragments and fitted them together. A shiver ran through her. It was like holding one of her friend's organs in her hands, exposed to the ruthless light of day. What if May were dead! Oh, she had no one else but May! and here were her poor teeth. Tears rained down Delight's cheeks.
She handed the teeth back to May who took them in her little red paw that smelled so of fish. The head of the salmon lay on the bench beside them, staring up with a look of shocked surprise. It was all very well for it to be surprised, thought Delight; it had never had any teeth. It didn't know what it was suddenly to be bereft of them.
"Quit yer blubbin'!" said May, but not unkindly. "What we've got to do is to think of a w'y out o' this."
We! Delicious word. It melted all the volcano of anger between them into a flowing lava of sympathy and comradeship. Once more they were May and Delight, two English girls, with this Canadian Ada to deal with.
"Now I'll tell you, May—I'll tell you—" began Delight. She was so anxious to be helpful, to think of a plan before May could.
May looked searchingly at her. "Well, tell aw'y, then. There's no need to linger over it. Wot's your plan?"
"Why, look here, May, say you're sick."
May shook her head. "That won't do. We'd 'ave 'er up, nosin' abaht me bedroom. Besides, the laundry's just come back and I've got to go over the sheets and piller-
