“I know we treated you dirt,” she admitted. “And I’m here to tell you——”
“Won’t you sit down, Queenie,” Marjorie interrupted, politely. “Let’s talk it all over.”
The girls walked over toward the window, and sat down on a wide divan that was turned towards it. This afforded them a view of the lovely campus, and at the same time assured them of a sort of privacy that would admit of confidences. Queenie immediately assumed the lead.
“It was an awful thing to do,” she began, “and I knew it—in fact, it’s all my fault because the rest of the bunch play follow the leader to whatever I tell ’em. You know yourself that the hike wasn’t what we all hoped—it was deader than a cemetery in winter—and we were all pretty down and out. I’d have given my next three dates to pull off some sort of a ringer.
“So after we got to the drive we stood there, drinkin’ our water and kiddin’ the cop along, when the swellest car drew up and stopped to fill up. None of our bunch ever miss nuthin’; in a minute we all sized up the good lookers on the front seat.
“‘How about tappin’ ’em for a ride?’ Stella says to me, sidewise.
“‘Nuthin’ doin’!’ I orders, military like. ‘Miss Wilkinson never wants us to pick up fellers!’
“But I wasn’t figurin’ on them askin’ us first. Somehow that seemed different. And first thing you know, they was both chewin’ the rag with Stella, and she was kiddin’ ’em back. And maybe she wasn’t rollin’ her flash-lights around!”
Marjorie smiled at this graphic portrayal of little Stella Cox. If ever there was a born flirt, she certainly was one.
“‘Which way you babies headed?’ asks the one at the wheel.