Fortunately Mrs. Morse received payment for a story in a magazine that week or Jess would never have had the heart to join the skating party. But the sum realized was sufficient to settle with Mr. Closewick, pay the month’s rent of the cottage, and pay a part of each bill at Mr. Heuffler’s and Mr. Vandergriff’s shops.
These payments left Jess and her mother almost as badly off as they were before. And there was the new account started at Mr. Hargrew’s. But Chet Belding urged Jess very strongly to be his guest on Saturday, and there was really no reason why Jess should not go. Her mother had seen Mr. Prentice and begun furnishing items to the Courier from day to day; and the girl felt that, with care, they might be able to keep from getting so deeply into debt again.
No snow had fallen up to Saturday noon; but it was cold, and the clouds threatened a feathery fall before many hours. The young folk who gathered in the big hall of the Belding house thought little of the cold, however. There were warm robes and blankets in the Belding auto and in the sightseeing machine that Mr. Purcell had sent. Chet, in his bearskin coat, looked like the original owner of the garment—especially when he pulled the goggles down from the visor of his cap, and prepared to go out to the car.
“My dear fellow,” drawled Prettyman Sweet, the dandy of Central High, who was of the party, “you look howwidly fewocious, doncher know! I wouldn’t dwess in such execrable taste for any sum you could mention—no, sir!”
“Beauty’s only skin deep, they say, Pretty,” responded Chet “So, if you were flayed, you might look quite human yourself.”
“Purt” was gorgeous in a Canadian skating suit—or so the tailor who sold it to him had called it. It was all crimson and white, with a fur-edged velvet cap that it really took courage to wear, and fur-topped boots. And his gloves! they were marvels. One of them lying on the floor of the Beldings’ hall gave Topsy, Mrs. Belding’s pet terrier, such a fright that she pretty nearly barked her head off.
She made so much noise that Lance grabbed at her and tried to put her out of the room, Topsy still barking furiously.
“You look out!” drawled Bobby Hargrew. “One end of that dog bites, Lance!”
They turned Purt around and around to get the beauties of his costume at every angle. And they “rigged” him sorely. But the exquisite was used to it; he would only have felt badly if they had ignored his new “get-up.”
“It’s quite the thing, I assure you,” he declared. “And, weally, one should pay some attention to the styles. You fellows, weally, dress in execrable taste.”