"But you consider those Maline girls—and they are the homeliest girls in Centerport—of more importance than Laura and Dora and Dorothy and me. You're not ashamed to appear before us with your outfit all smudged up!"
"But, my dear Miss Morse!" gasped Pretty.
"Don't you 'dear' me, Mister!" ejaculated Jess, with every appearance of anger. "If I'm not as good as Sissy Maline——"
"Oh, you are! You are!" declared Purt, in haste. "You misunderstand. I am in this horrid state. But—you see—you saw it happen and realize that it was an unavoidable accident——"
"Nothing of the kind!" snapped Jess, still apparently unyielding. "If you hadn't tried to smoke a nasty cigarette——"
"Oh, I assure you it was a very mild one. I have them made extremely mild—and with my monogram on the paper. Weally, you know——"
"Horrid thing! You're the only boy who smokes them that we know. What do you say, girls? Sha'n't we cut Purt right off of our calling lists if he doesn't give up monogrammed cigarettes?"
"They're the worst kind," murmured Chet. "The monogram makes 'em so much more deadly."
"I tried one of Purt's coffin nails once—ugh!" admitted Lance. "He calls 'em mild. But he's so saturated with nicotine that he doesn't know what 'mild' means. I believe they make his cigarettes out of rope-yarn and distilled opium. One puff made me ill all day."
"Impossible, dear boy!" gasped Purt.