“There’s a wad of roses at the house for you, Snapsy,” her father informed her as the machine started, and his brown eyes twinkled until they almost seemed to be surrounded by a halo. “They’re from number one, I think.”
“Number one?” puzzled Gail, who had taken a folding seat so that she might occasionally pat Taffy, who sat up sedately with the chauffeur.
“Miles,” protested Mrs. Sargent, trying to direct his glance toward Arly.
“Edward E. Allison,” grinned Gail’s father. “He must be a very active gentleman. Probably telephoned his own florist in New York to telegraph Marty here to supply you. Nothing has arrived from the other eight.”
Gail had a mad impulse to search for her time table. She remembered now—could she ever forget it—that her nine slaves had been numbered!
“Dad!” she wailed. “You couldn’t have seen that awful paper!”
“We receive the New York papers now at four P.M.,” he informed her, with an assumption of local pride in the fact. “This morning’s Planet had a wonderful circulation here. I think everybody in town has seen it.”
Arly Fosland had the bad grace to giggle. Mrs. Sargent looked at her dubiously. She had, of course, implicit confidence in Gail’s selection of friends, but nevertheless she was not one to make up her own mind too rapidly.
“Everybody’s proud of you, Snapsy!” went on Miles Sargent. “That’s a wonderful collection of slaves to have made in so short a time.”
“Please don’t, Dad!” begged Gail.