first, she gently massaged my face with the second and third, the while
insinuating into my own a small hand not innocent of marmalade. Betty is
seven or thereabouts. "Mr. --er," she said, "what shall we be to-day?"

"Let us," I replied hastily, "pretend to be not quite at our best this
morning, and have a quiet time in the deck-chairs on the lawn." Betty very
naturally paid no regard whatever to this cowardly suggestion.

"I'm not quite sure," she said, "if we will be pirates or soldiers or just
sailors. What do you think?"

Pirates sounded rather strenuous for so hot a day. Soldiers, I felt sure,
involved my becoming a German prisoner and parading the garden paths with
my arms up, crying "Kamerad!" while Betty, gun in hand, shepherded and
prodded me from behind. Just sailors, on the other hand, smacked of gentle
sculling exercise in the dinghy on the lake, so I said, "Let's be just
sailors."

But a sailor's life, as interpreted by Betty, is no rest cure. On land it
includes an exaggerated rolling gait--itself somewhat fatiguing--and
intervals of active participation in that most exacting dance, the
hornpipe, to one's own whistling accompaniment. At odd moments, also, it
appears that the best sailors double briskly to such melodies as
"Tipperary" and "Keep the Home Fires Burning."

It was only when we arrived by the lake-side that Betty observed my
gumboots; instantly a return to the house in search of Daddy's nautical
footgear was necessitated. This, though generous in dimensions, was finally
induced to remain in position on Betty's small feet, her own boots being,
of course, retained.