“For the Glasgow Cathedral,” answered Madeline placidly. “This way, please.”
“This way please! Follow the man from Cook’s,” chanted Babbie mockingly. And after that Madeline was known as “the man from Cook’s,” because her easy fashion of finding her way around each place they visited, whether or not she had been there before, rivaled the omniscience of the great tourist agency.
So under Madeline’s capable guidance they visited the beautiful old cathedral and then took an electric tram, which is like an electric car with seats on the roof and a spiral stairway at the back leading up to them, out to the park and the art gallery. After Babe had looked at the one great treasure of the gallery, Whistler’s portrait of Thomas Carlyle, she announced that she had seen enough for one day, and would wait for the others outside.
“Let’s all say ‘enough,’” suggested Babbie, “and go for a tram-ride. I move that the man from Cook’s be censured for telling us that it wasn’t far enough out here to pay us for climbing to the top-story of the tram. Hereafter it is going to be a rule that we always ride on top.”
“I should say it was,” Babe seconded her eagerly. “My father owns a trolley line in Rochester, New York, and I’m going to write and tell him about this second-story idea. I’m sure people would flock from all over the country to ride up on the roof of the cars. Then he’d make piles of money and I could go abroad every summer, the way Babbie does.”
“Let’s just ride back to town on top,” suggested Betty, “and then go and have tea at the address Mary Brooks gave us. She said it was the nicest tea-shop they went to anywhere.”
This suited everybody, and they had all climbed up on the second story of the tram, and were settling themselves for the ride back, when Babbie gave an exclamation of delight. “Why, that’s John Morton standing on the steps of the art gallery. Oh, do let’s get off! I want to go back and talk to him. Why, I hadn’t the least idea he was in Europe!”
“Oh, don’t let’s get down again,” wailed Betty, who had stepped on her skirt-braid in climbing up, and was trying to repair damages with pins. “It’s such dreadfully hard work.”
“We can’t,” declared Madeline decisively. “We’ve paid our tuppences, and we couldn’t get them back.”
“I wish I could remember to say tuppence,” sighed Babe enviously. “Who is John Morton, Babbie? Are you sure it’s he on the steps?”