"Perhaps you don't, but those girls in No. 8 do. They're longing for absolute creeps—only a ghost, or a burglar, or an air raid, or something really stirring, would content them."
"I'm afraid they'll have to go discontented then."
"Certainly not. As I remarked before, we ought to be philanthropic and provide a little entertainment to cheer them up. I have a plan."
"Proceed, O Queen, and disclose it then."
"Barbara Wright suggested it to me—not intentionally, of course. We'll play a rag on them. One of us must pretend to sleep-walk and go into their room. It ought to give them spasms. Do you catch on?"
"Rather!" replied the others.
"But who's going to do the sleep-walking business?" asked Irene.
"Marjorie's the best actress. We'll leave it to her. Give us a specimen now, old sport, and show us how you'll do it. Oh, that's ripping! It'll take them in no end. I should like to see Barbara's face."
Marjorie was always perfectly ready for anything in the way of a practical joke, especially if it were a new variety. The girls had grown rather tired of apple-pie beds or sewn-up nightdress sleeves, but nobody had yet thought of somnambulism.
"I'm not going to stop awake again, though, until twelve," she objected. "I had enough of it last night. It's somebody else's turn."