“Hey, Laura!”
The call was repeated in a loud “stage whisper”; the sound came from the open window. Laura started and turned to look. She could see a fly-away mop of flaxen hair, a line of forehead, and two sparkling brown eyes.
“Bobby Hargrew!” she cried, and went to the window.
“Oh, Laura! I want something,” whispered her friend, fairly dancing up and down outside the window. “I’ve got such a scheme!”
“What is it now?” asked Laura, sedately. “Bobby” Hargrew’s schemes were often very crack-brained indeed. Everybody—except her grandmother—called her “Bobby” instead of “Clara.” There were no boys in the Hargrew family; but her father, Tom Hargrew, declared that Clara was just as much fun as any boy. And she certainly was a “fly-away.”
“Get your father to let you have that big magnifying glass we were looking at last week, and bring it along to the store,” whispered Bobby, chuckling while she preferred the request.
“What for?”
“Never mind! I’ll show you when we get to the store. Dad’s about to shut up. Hurry, now!”
Tom Hargrew’s grocery store was on the block just beyond the Belding shop.
“I—don’t—know,” murmured Laura, glancing at her father and his customer. “Pa’s busy.”