The Imp and the Angel
"An' this is 'way above my waist," he added cheerfully, "an' yours is wet as sop!"
The Angel glanced at his dripping duck and proudly agreed that it was. "I 'll get noomony, I guess," he volunteered, after a few moments of happy silence, during which they watched the gulls wheel above them, and wriggled about on the warm, wet seaweed.
"Tracy and me don't get noomony," murmured the Imp sleepily, for the sun and the dancing on the beach had made him drowsy, "but you might, maybe. My mother says you'd be better if you played more, and did n't wear such nice clothes. You 're white as a potato sprout—"
"So 're you!" retorted the Angel, hotly. "My clothes are not nice, either! You need n't say so!"
The Imp was getting ready for a crushing retort when a strong smell of burning wood came to his keen little nose. The wind had changed, and he felt a little cool, too; so he shook off what water he could, and without reply climbed up the bank of straggling sand-grass which had hidden them effectually from the hotel and the frightened Emma, and looked about him. The Angel
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