She started to lead the way down a weed-tangled path at the side of the house, but Nan drew back. She did not exactly like this old woman with that queer story about a giant frog.
“I’ll—I’ll go call my father,” said Nan. “He’ll get the water in a pail, thank you. I’ll call my father,” and she turned away.
“Your father never throwed stones at my frog, did he?” demanded the old woman sharply. Nan decided she was so queer that she must be a hermit—living all alone in the half-tumbled-down hut.
“Of course not!” exclaimed Nan. “Daddy wouldn’t throw stones at any animal.”
“Wa-all, mebby he did when he was a boy. But I’ll let him get some water from my spring,” said the old woman.
Before Nan could reach the swinging gate she heard her father calling, and Bert, too, added his voice, saying:
“Yes, there’s a spring here,” Nan replied, “But—”
She was going to add something about the frog, but she did not have time, for her father and Bert at that moment opened the gate. They caught sight of the old woman.
For a moment, Bert said later, he thought she was the one for whom they were searching. But he had no time to say anything for no sooner had the old woman caught sight of Bert, than she exclaimed:
“Oh, ho! There’s a boy! A pesky boy! Did you ever throw stones at my frog in the spring? If ye did—”
“Sure!” he repeated, wondering what it all meant.
“What’s this about a frog in the spring?” asked Mr. Bobbsey, smiling, for he saw that he had to do with a queer person.
“It’s my frog, Ebenezer,” explained the old woman. “The biggest bullfrog that ever lived. I’ll show him to you and let you get water from my spring if you never throwed stones at him.”
“I’m sure we never did, for I have never been on this road before,” answered Mr. Bobbsey.
The old woman looked at him sharply, then at Bert; and, as if satisfied that they were telling the truth, she said:
“Wa-all, all right. Come on and bring your blickie.”
“My blickie?” exclaimed Mr. Bobbsey. “What’s that?”
“Your pail—your bucket—whatever you call it. I calls ’em blickies. That’s what I calls ’em—blickies,” said the old woman. “It’s Dutch—Pennsylvania Dutch,” she explained. “I’m Pennsylvania Dutch.”
“Oh,” murmured Mr. Bobbsey, making a side motion to Nan and Bert to tell them not to laugh.