“I think there are some games in the table drawer in the parlor,” she told the girls, as they rose from the table. “You’re welcome to play with ’em.”
Frieda went in and got them, but Marjorie went straight to her room. Throwing herself upon the bed, she sobbed bitterly.
“Why do you ’spose old Higgins isn’t back?” she asked, as Frieda entered their bedroom.
“Probably he couldn’t get your father,” said the other. “Are you sure he would be home?”
Marjorie thought for a moment, and then started to weep afresh.
“No, he wouldn’t!” she exclaimed. Then, brokenly, “Mama and papa were going away this morning for a week-end party, and Jack is camping. Oh, Frieda!” Her voice died in a wail of woe.
Frieda sat down beside Marjorie and drew her head to her shoulder. She let her cry for a minute or so, and then tried to calm her.
“Nothing awful can happen, Marjorie,” she said, soothingly. “We’ll only miss a few days of good time at the most. For something is sure to happen—the real Margie Wilkinson that they are looking for will turn up, or old Higgins will reach your father by phone, and he’ll come hot-foot himself—or the scouts will send a rescue party, or——”
Marjorie smiled faintly through her tears.
“You are a great comfort, Frieda. I don’t know what I’d ever do without you. I suppose there are worse things than missing the meet and a few days at Silvertown; but oh, I was so eager to go!”