and she ain’t afraid of water, and she ain’t afraid of work, and she ain’t afraid of spending a penny. Talk about persimmons! Molly’s them!”
“I’m waiting anxiously,” said Jamie, “to know Molly.”
“Well, go on waitin’,” said the small person. “Stick on the job, and when she does come, if you care about girls, why, there’s a girl that’s got some juice in her!”
“I believe you,” said Jamie. “I think you should know and I’ve every confidence in your judgment.”
The little Scout was crumbling bread along the edge of the back walk for a hen mocking bird that had nested in a date palm beside the pergola. A large chunk of apple from one that was being consumed in scarcely masticated chunks was laid beside the bread. In three more bites the apple disappeared, core and all. Juicy fingers were wiped on the seat of unusually soiled breeches, and the little Scout took a hold above the hands Jamie had gripped around the stems of some iris he was transplanting. The added strength that was brought to bear loosened the roots from the ground and the Scout Master and the Bee Keeper rolled promiscuously over each other and down the side of the mountain until they came to forceful impact with a grapefruit tree. They got up laughing, and Jamie gathered up the iris. The Scout Master stood daintily poised. A deep inhalation of breath, an indrawn upper lip, an outshot lower one, blew the dust from the deep gray eyes. A shake like a dog coming from the water was supposed to be sufficient to dislodge accumulated dirt. An ecstatic expression toned to idiotic sweetness settled on the
