Which proved to be true. The girls made those inside hear at their first summons. Silence fell upon the O’Brien cottage on the instant.
There might have been some whisperings and soft commands; but then, in a moment, a good-looking, black-haired girl, in a clean apron and with her sleeves rolled up over her dimpled elbows, opened the front door.
“You’re Norah O’Brien, I know,” said Nancy, putting out her hand.
“You’re a good guesser, Miss,” returned the girl, who might have been sixteen or seventeen. “And who might you be—and the other pretty lady?”
“Why—didn’t Scorch tell you——”
“Sarsfield, do ye mane?” asked Norah, her eyes twinkling.
“I mean Scorch O’Brien,” declared Nancy.
“Patrick Sarsfield is his name,” declared Scorch’s big sister. “Here! P. Sarsfield O’Brien!” she shouted into the house. “It’s coompany ye’ve got.”
“Gee!” drawled the voice of the red-haired youth. “What did they come to the door for?” and he made his appearance, looking very sheepish.
“How could you expect us to whistle, Scorch?” demanded Nancy, while Jennie bubbled over with laughter. “Girls can’t whistle.”