King and Kitty put both hands behind their ears, and leaned forward in exaggerated anxiety to hear the plan.
“Hope it’s mischief,” said King; “I’ve been good so long I’m just about ready to sprout wings. Let’s cut up jinks.”
“No,” said Marjorie, severely; “it isn’t mischief, and we’re not going to cut up jinks. At least, not bad jinks. Not till Mother and Father come home, anyway. But I’m sort of hungry for a racket of some kind, myself. So let’s do this. You know next week Wednesday is Miss Larkin’s birthday.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Kitty; “how old is she?”
“Kit,” said her brother, “I’m ashamed of you! You mustn’t talk about grown-up people’s ages. You ought to know that.”
“Well, what’s the sense of a birthday, if it doesn’t mean how old you are?” demanded Kitty.
“Never mind that,” resumed Marjorie; “we mustn’t say a word about her age. I know that much myself. But, you see, we did upset her awf’ly when we bounced the Simpsons right into the middle of her grand dinner party, and I don’t think she ever got over it.”
“She’s been nice about it, though,” said King, thoughtfully.
“Yes, she has. Hasn’t scolded us hardly a bit about it. And that’s just why I think we might do something nice for her on her birthday, to sort of make up, you know.”
“Hooray!” cried King. “That is a good idea, Mops. Let’s have a regular celebration for her.”