“It’s certainly white of you fellows to hustle over here,” he said as he shook hands. “I appreciate it.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” grinned Bill. “We seem to be rather late for the excitement.”
“Well, if it hadn’t been for Betty and Dorothy—” began George.
“You’d have pulled yourself out all right,” interrupted the latter young lady. “Look here, supper’s nearly ready, and since I’ve set everybody else to work, suppose I give you a job, too? Take Betty into the dining room and show her how to set the table, and you’ll be a fine help.”
“Say, it’s great, the way you’ve pitched in here—did you have a hard time finding things?”
“No, not at all. Except—” here Dorothy looked stern, “I don’t approve of your housekeeping methods—I had to scour the frying pan twice, sir, do you realize that?”
George hung his head. “Gee, I guess I’m pretty careless, but—”
The cook giggled: “Mercy, you look downcast. I was only kidding, George. I think you’re a fine housekeeper, honestly, I do. Now you get a wiggle on with the table, please. These eggs are nearly finished. They’ll be ruined if we have to wait.”
When the two had disappeared, Dorothy dished the scrambled eggs into a warm plate and turned to Bill and Terry.
“He thinks Betty ran this job,” she informed them. “They’ve got a crush on each other, I guess. So don’t put him wise, will you?”