“I have invited you to go with me,” said Beth.
“With us,” put in Molly Granger. “You will be our guest to-day. How far up the river is your fare paid?”
“To tell you the truth, I had a ticket—er—given me to Jackson City,” replied the other, speaking slowly.
“All right,” said Molly, quickly. “That’s beyond Rivercliff. You can get a stop-over.”
“Well!” said Cynthia Fogg, with a burst of emotion. “You are good to me!”
“Let’s go out on deck for a breath of fresh air first,” Molly suggested.
The trio went outside, through one of the sliding doors. The deck was wet and the mist stood congealed in drops upon the railing. Into the fog their gaze could not penetrate a dozen yards. All they could see was a portion of the steamboat itself, and the grayish, muddy water lapping alongside and below them.
“Ugh, how nasty!” said Cynthia Fogg with a shudder, leaning over the wet rail.
“Oh!” squealed Molly, and fell heavily against the taller girl. In grabbing at her own hat, her elbow struck Cynthia’s topheavy “creation,” and the abomination flew off the freckled girl’s head.
“What are you doing?” demanded Cynthia, in some heat, although her voice remained low and well modulated.