"It was Bob's own tin," giggled delighted Mabel, almost tumbling into Mrs. Crane's potato pan in her joy. "I guess he had a right to take it home if he wanted to."
"Anyway," said Jean, from her perch on the porch railing, "I'm glad they're gone."
"But it doesn't do us any good," sighed Bettie. "And the summer's just flying."
"Yes, it does," insisted Jean. "We can stand having the cottage empty—we can pretend, you know, that it's an enchanted castle that can be opened only by a certain magic key that—"
"Somebody's baby has swallowed," shrieked Mabel, the matter-of-fact.
"Mercy no, goosie," said Marjory. "She means a magic word that nobody can remember."
"That's it," said Jean. "Of course we couldn't do even that with the cottage full of Milligans."
"No," assented Marjory, "the most active imagination would refuse to activate—"
"To what?" gasped Mabel.
"To work," explained Marjory.