Uncle Bob straightened determinedly. “We’ve got to take that child,” he declared.
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say that!” cried Miss Ruth. “Poor, unhappy——”
But Phœbe heard no more. For an idea had come to her, and she had decided to act upon it. Manila was locked up by her cruel step-mother—exactly like some unfortunate waif in a moving-picture story! Uncle Bob meant that Manila should be set free.
“And I’m going to do it,” vowed Phœbe.
She made for the hall door.
CHAPTER XVII
All the moving-picture heroines that Phœbe loved were responsible for her resolve to rescue Manila. The plan seemed an inspiration; and not in the least degree blameworthy—on the contrary. When had she seen one of her screen favorites do anything, however startling, that had brought disaster, or punishment—even displeasure? Quite naturally, therefore, Phœbe apprehended only success in her venture, happiness for Manila, and praise for herself.
She thrilled with the excitement of the venture as she set off from the Blair side-porch. Here was a real heart drama!
As she trotted across the lawn and through the garden, Phœbe made up her mind as to how she would carry out her design. Once, in a book she had read, a boy had stealthily attracted the attention of another boy by throwing pebbles against a window. She determined to throw pebbles against Manila’s window.
She knew which was the Botts house by beginning at the Shepard residence and counting three. Manila’s home was of brick, with white trimmings and green blinds. The window toward Miss Ruth’s was not high from the ground, and it was just above a recently spaded flower-bed. When Phœbe reached the fence that skirted the flower-bed, she gathered a handful of small gravel, tossed it against the window-panes, and then crouched in the lee of the fence. Her heart was pounding against her middy blouse—pounding wildly. She was glad of it. In a matter of this kind that was precisely what a moving-picture heroine’s heart should do!