"She would have to be something else besides tall and long to outdo our windmill," said Jane, referring to Drusilla's particular arm sweep. "I am counting on your arms to toss that ball into the basket more times than the Breslins can count."
"Oh, woe is me! I may wave--not too near a face, or I may wag not too near a line, but to shoot baskets with my windmills--Jane dear, help me out and make it dribbles. I adore dribbles." Drusilla was now bouncing up and down with the auto motion, "doing the short hills" in the famous on high record of the well-tried Wellington seven passenger.
"Our chauffeur, one Thomas, has little regard for basketball conditions," Judith remarked. "Just then he registered a bumper on my pet ankle."
"But Tom is out to get there," Jane insisted. "He knows we play at three thirty, and I have promised he can see the game."
"What! A man see us play!" screamed Clarisse Bradley.
"Pray why not?" asked Jane. "Are we not good enough players?"
"Oh, yes, but----"
"But the bloomers, and things, eh, Clare?" joked Norma Travers. "To my overstrained mind, it seems really pathetic that we can or have to call in the very chauffeur to view the exhibition--I mean the game," she corrected archly.
"Yes, indeed. I think we should have a real public game, with everyone invited," Jane declared. "Here we are! Now everyone must take care of her own traps. We don't want the Breslins criticising our personal deportment, or our practical application of domestic science."
Tumbling out of the cars the Wellingtons and their guests were met and welcomed by the Breslins at the great gate, with its inviting arch leading into the beautiful grounds surrounding the exclusive school, variously designated as seminary and college.