“No. Madge and Bob Steele are going. And your brother Tom,” chuckled the stout girl. “And perhaps that Isadore Phelps. You wouldn’t call Busy Izzy a Sweetbriar; would you?”
“I don’t mean the boys,” returned Helen, with some coolness.
Suddenly Mercy Curtis, her head on one side and her thin little face twisted into a most knowing grimace, interrupted. “I know what this means!” she exclaimed.
“What do you mean, Goody Two-Sticks?” demanded Ruth, kindly.
“Our Helen has a grouch.”
“Nonsense!” muttered Helen, flushing again.
“I thought something didn’t fit her when she came in,” said Heavy, calmly. “But I thought it was indigestion.”
“What is the matter, Helen?” asked Ruth Fielding in wonder.
“‘Fee, fi, fo fum! I see the negro run!’–into the woodpile!” ejaculated the lame girl, in her biting way. “I know what is the matter with Queen Helen of Troy. She’s been with The Fox.”
Ruth and Heavy stared at Mercy in surprise; but Helen turned her head aside.