“Now,” she said, smiling prettily, “I’ll give you some orangeade.”
“It’s sure to be good and cold, served from that ice punch-bowl,” said the young man.
“Yes, indeed,” returned Marjorie, her voice betokening her pride in her clever achievement.
She turned to the ice-bowl, and there was not a drop of orangeade in it!
“King is playing a joke on me,” she thought to herself, and her cheeks flushed with indignation that he should be guilty of such an ill-timed jest.
“King,” she called, for he was crossing the room, “bring back that pail!”
“Whew!” he cried, turning back, “not sold out again!”
“You didn’t put any in here!”
“I did so; I poured in three or four quarts.”
“Well, where is it? This ice thing is empty.”