“I should of thought you’d be the last person in the world to want any scout of yours, let alone the patrol leader, to keep steady company with a feller her family put the lid on!” challenged Gertie.
Marjorie’s eyes flashed; she was genuinely angry now.
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“I mean Queenie sees him ’most every night without her ma knowin’ it. If he was all right, she’d be only too glad to bring him home!”
“Maybe they think she’s too young to have company,” Marjorie ventured.
“Maybe they don’t! She’d had lots of dates before—even had fellers to supper Sunday nights.”
Gertie grinned maliciously; at last she was thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Well, I wouldn’t let it concern me, if I were you,” concluded Marjorie, with a clear note of dismissal in her voice. “Queenie has too much good sense to do anything rash.”
“That’s just where you make your mistake!” retorted the other, rising. “The real dope is—” she paused to give emphasis to the final shot she was about to fire—“the real dope is: she’s got it into her head to elope! You can take that from me!”
“What?”