“Calls herself _her_ half the time,” Dicky explained. He gathered up
the dresses and shooing Betsy ahead of him, followed her into the
yard.

“She’s the greatest child I ever saw,” he said, rejoining Maida a
little later. “The things she thinks of to do! Why, the other day,
Miss Allison—the sister of the blind lady what sits in the window
and knits—the one what owns the parrot—well, Miss Allison painted
one of her old chairs red and put it out in the yard to dry. Then
she washed a whole lot of lace and put that out to dry. Next thing
she knew she looked out and there was Betsy washing all the red
paint off the chair with the lace. You’d have thought that would
have been enough for one day, wouldn’t you? Well, that afternoon she
turned the hose on Mr. Flanagan—that’s the policeman on the beat.”

“What did he say?” Maida asked in alarm. She had a vague imaginary
picture of Betsy being dragged to the station-house.

“Roared! But then Mr. Flanagan thinks Betsy’s all right. Always
calls her ’sophy Sparkles.’ Betsy runs away about twice a week. Mr.
Flanagan’s always finding her and lugging her home. I guess every
policeman in Charlestown knows her by this time. There, look at her
now! Did you ever see such a kid?”

Betsy had come out of the yard again. She was carrying a huge
feather duster over her head as if it were a parasol.

“The darling!” Maida said joyously. “I hope she’ll do something
naughty every day.”