“Well, there’s Jim Barlow. He’s a boy.”
“He’s no party kind of a boy,” objected Molly, “and he’s only—us. She hasn’t anybody down that isn’t us, so far. We few can’t make a whole party.”
But Dolly and Alfy were wholly serious.
“Montmorency Vavasour-Stark,” suggested the former, and the writer essayed that formidable name. Then she threw down the pen in dismay, exclaiming:
“You’ll have to indite that yourself or spell it out to me letter by letter. He’ll take more’n a whole line if I write him to match the others.”
“Oh! he doesn’t take up much room, he’s so little,” reassured idle Molly, with a mischievous glance toward the doorway which the other girls did not observe; while by dint of considerable assistance Alfy “got him down” and “all on one line!” as she triumphantly remarked.
“That’s two boys and three girls. Who’s your next boy?”
“Melvin Cook. He’s easy to write,” said Dolly.
“But he’s gone.”
“Yes, Alfy, but he can come back. They’ll all have to ‘come’ except we who don’t have to.”