“Oh, but, fellows, I don’t make a practice of doing this sort of thing,” explained Pete with an air of having been caught in something unbecoming to his dignity. “It just comes into my head like this and I out with it.”
“No apologies necessary,” said Hal. “Do it some more, and receive the thanks of the committee on entertainment.”
The matter was dropped, but from this time out Pete received the nickname of Troub, short for troubadour, and his song became a favorite with his troop as well as with the Sunflower girls.
The supper party at last broke up, and the girls went home when the afterglow still reddened the water and a rising moon glittered above the tree-tops. The boys saw them safely to the lodge, and went off singing: “She’s my pineapple.”
Of course there must be a like party for the boys when the girls displayed their powers as cooks, and quite outdid themselves. On this occasion Pablo was asked to be one of the party. Then the boys clamored for Chico, who was brought down and put through his paces, Pablo showing some marvellous feats of horsemanship which brought him great applause and made more than one boy envious.
There were other frolics, too, when girls and boys went picnicking, farther down the river. There was a corn roast by moonlight in a big field when the first corn was ready to be eaten. There was a straw ride to a country church festival five miles away. Besides these were many excursions on the river which was a never-failing attraction. Meantime Claude Lafayette was provided with an ample outfit, Mariquita’s brothers and Pablo became close friends, while the girls baked and kept house, washed, ironed, sewed and studied, played much, and worked no more than was good for them.
All this time no accidents of any account had befallen. A slight burn, a cut finger, a blistered heel about covered the list. But one day when Joanne and Winnie were on their way to the lock to telephone for some supplies, they heard a sudden commotion in the house where dwelt their young protégé, Claude Lafayette. Screams, wails, a babble of excited talk issued from the open doorway. Both girls started on a run toward the house. “Hurry,” cried Winnie over her shoulder, “something is wrong.”
Joanne kept close at Winnie’s heels and they entered the house without ceremony to find Mrs. Scraggs in the kitchen, her baby on her lap and the other children crowded around her crying.
“What’s the matter?” asked Winnie sharply as she came in.
“Oh, my baby! My baby! He’s drowned! He’s drowned!” wailed Mrs. Scraggs.