Jim gave a running jump on to the platform of a passing car and had his innings while the girls, taken unaware, scrambled down from their truck and hurried after him.
It didn’t seem as if it would be hard to keep Eleanor. There was the little awkward moment at first, that even the best of friends experience when they haven’t seen each other for over a year; and then such a babel of talk and laughter, of questions asked all at once and never answered, of explanations interrupted by exclamations, and rendered wholly incoherent by hugs and kisses.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” they told her.
“Yes, you have! You’re prettier than ever.”
“When will you sing for us?”
“Have you done any writing lately?”
“Are you too tired to see the Tally-ho right away?”
“You’re to live in Rachel’s little white house, you know, and we’re all quarreling about when we can have you for dinner.”
“Picnics! I should think so. As many as you want.”
“Don’t those infants make the absurdest imitations of faculties?”