Then he threw off his shoes and
stockings, turned up his knee breeches and stepped into the water, where
he helped the feet to kick and splash. He rubbed them and at last picked
up handfuls of fine sand and lightly massaged with it until he brought
a pink glow.
"That's the stuff," indorsed Peter. "Look at that! You're pulling the
blood down."
"Where's the blood?" asked Peaches.
Peter explained the circulatory system and why all the years of lying,
with no movement, had made her so helpless. He told her why scarce and
wrong food had not made good blood to push down and strengthen her feet so
they would walk. He told her the friction of the sand-rubbing would pull
it down, while the sun, water, and earth would help. Peaches with wide
eyes listened, her breath coming faster and faster, until suddenly she
leaned forward and cried: "Rub, Mickey! Rub 'til the blood flies! Rub 'em
hot as hell!"
"Well, Miss Chicken!" he cried in despair.
Peaches buried her shamed face on Peter's breast. He screened her with a
big hand.
Pages:
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509