Much crestfallen, Marjorie turned again to the people who were patiently waiting for their order to be served.
“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing rosily, “but I can’t give you orangeade—because I haven’t any left.”
“What, what!” cried the young man, teasingly; “why, I just saw several quarts poured into that ice washtub there!”
“Yes,” said Marjorie, “but it poured itself out again. You see, that’s a beautiful ice-tub—but it leaks.”
“It needs the plumber,” said King, coming to his sister’s rescue. “Just a leak in the pipes, somewhere. Sorry not to give you any orangeade, but we can only offer you these delicious paper oranges instead.”
The young man laughed, and bought paper oranges for his party instead of the refreshment they had expected.
They didn’t care, of course, for buyers at a bazaar are always good-natured, but Marjorie was greatly chagrined that her clever contrivance had failed.
“No matter,” said Miss Merington, who had been occupied on the other side of the tree, and only heard about the mishap after it was all over; “no matter; it was a good enough scheme, but it fell through.”
“It was good orangeade, but it fell through, too,” laughed King. “Now I must skip. Don’t you care, Midget, sell oranges and look happy.”
This was good advice, and Midget acted on it.