“Ha! there’s another figure for me!” cried Austin next. “My star’s overhead this afternoon. Fly, Max, and tell Florry to hurry up. She’s the very thing for a photograph. There’s ‘pictorial value’ in any girl with long hair and an animated expression.”
Max “flew” as desired; and, while he ran—by way of saving time,—acquainted Florry at the top of his voice with the honour in store for her. Florry naturally flew to meet the honour, reached Max midway, caught his hand, and dashed wildly back. They landed, at full pelt, in the middle of Frances, Betty, Austin, the camera, and the baskets. In the result, Austin and the smaller basket became as mixed as the impressionist foreground.
“Goodness!” said the boy ruefully, picking himself up. “I’ve squashed your basket, Max, and all your father’s things are running out in streams!”
The entire company precipitated themselves on the snow to examine the ruin.
“It wasn’t medicine—it was port-wine,” confessed Max in sorrow; “Dad was sending it to old Briggs. Janet had made him some jelly and stuff, too. You needn’t mind, though, Austin; it was my fault.”
“Bosh!”
“You needn’t mind, either of you,” said Frances. “Mamma will give us some more port-wine, and we’ll beg a jelly from cook.”
“Thank you,” said Max fervently. “You’re awfully kind, Frances,—Frances the Altruist!”
“Now for the figures!” Austin sprang with recovered glee to his camera. “You’d better all stand nicely up against my carefully-arranged gate.”
“But why should we all stand up against a gate?” objected Betty. “Let half of us, at least, sit down.”