“That big kite of yours. Wind’s directly up the hill. We’ll get it and try the scheme. Oh, you Mother Wit!” shouted Lance, after Laura. “We’re going after the kite.”
And that suggestion of Laura’s was the beginning of Chet and Lance Darby’s “mile-a-minute iceboat”—but more of that wonderful invention later.
Laura was halted again before she reached Market Street, and her father went on without her, for it was now half-past eight. Jess Morse waved to her from a window, and in a moment came running out in a voluminous checked apron and a gay sweater-coat, hastily “shrugged” on.
“Where were you last night?” cried Laura. “We missed you dreadfully at the M. O. R. house.”
“I—I really couldn’t come,” said her chum, hesitating just a little, for it was hard not to be perfectly frank with Laura, who was always so open and confidential with her. “Mother is so busy—she worked half the night——”
“Genius burns the midnight oil, eh?” laughed Laura.
“Yes, indeed. And now I’m about to make her toast and brew her tea, and she will take it, propped up in bed, and read over the work she did last night. Saturdays, when I am home, is mother’s ‘lazy day.’ She says she feels quite like a lady of leisure then.”
“But you should have come to the first big reception of the winter,” complained her chum.
“Couldn’t. But I heard that there was something very wonderful going to happen, just the same,” cried Jess.
“What do you mean?”