“I know all about it!” calmly replied Arden. “I am that girl!” she announced in her best stage manner. “I’ll tell you all about it,” and she did.
“Are you going to Tiddy?” Sim wanted to know.
“I think not—little one,” drawled Arden, still calmly but with firm decision, as her friends could tell by the look in her eyes. When Arden made up her mind, it was made up. “It would be useless to explain,” she continued. “Besides, I really didn’t do anything.”
“Well, if you’re found out, it might just as well be murder—we’ll all be sent home,” Terry decided.
“You’re right, Terry,” Sim agreed. “We ought all to leave for home before we suffer the ignominy of being sent.”
“Not tonight, at least,” Arden temporized. “I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. I say let’s wait until something really happens. Besides, I think it will be lots of fun to raid the kitchen.”
“Do you think Tiddy has any real evidence?” asked Sim.
“Let’s try to guess what we shall find to eat in the raid,” said Arden demurely.
“My dear roommate,” laughed Terry, “you are, without doubt, a peer in the art of changing subjects. But I do agree with you about the raid. We must all wear tennis shoes and carry flashlights.”
“Let’s get our work done quickly, then,” proposed Sim, “and wait, with what patience we may, for Jane,” and she swept her chums a bow in her latest amateur dramatic rôle.