“Such a club-house as Sterndale has been talking about would cost twenty-five hundred dollars, at least,” put in Rob Linton. “It’s no use to think of such a thing.”
“Bub-bub-bub-but it’s a pup-pup-pup-perfectly lovely dud-dud-dud-dream!” sighed Danny Chatterton, opening his eyes and slowly looking around. “I just hu-hate to wake up.”
“Go to sleep again,” advised Walter Mayfair. “You’ll never be missed.”
“It’s a splendid plan,” came, with enthusiasm, from Dolph Renwood, who was sitting on a rough table, the edge of which he was notching with his jack-knife. “It’s a pity it can’t be carried out, and I’m not so sure but it can be.”
“HOW?” shouted all the others, as one person.
“If we could get the leading citizens of the town interested, they might contribute to a fund to——”
“Contribute to your Aunt Hannah!” grunted Thad Boland, derisively. “I don’t think you know much about the leading citizens of this town, Mr. Renwood.”
“But you must have some rich men who are public-spirited and can afford to help along such a worthy move? Now, there is Mr. Tuttle, for instance. They say he has dead loads of money.”
“Old Tut-Tut-Tuttle!” exploded Chatterton, contemptuously. “Why, he lul-lul-lul-let his own bub-bub-brother die on the pup-pup-poor-farm! He’s mum-mean enough to sus-skin a louse for its hide and taller!”
“Well, there is Eben Snood,” ventured Dolph. “He pretends to take great interest in the welfare and advancement of the town.”