“What’s the matter, honey?” asked Ruth, smiling down at the serious face of the fairy-like Dot. “What is it?”
“Why, Ruthie,” said Dot, wonderingly, “I was only thinking if that middle fish wanted to turn over, what a lot of trouble it would have!”
Amid the laughter of the two older girls at this, the door banged open and a boy with a mop of flaxen hair—a regular “whitehead” and a football cut at that—burst into the room.
“My goodness me, girls! aren’t you ready yet?” he demanded. “And it’s half-past seven.”
“The eggs are,” Tess declared, the first to speak, for she had not been laughing.
“Well, then,” said the boy, “you and I, Tess, will just take the eggs and go.”
“What’s the matter, Neale O’Neil? Won’t your horse stand?” drawled Agnes, tossing her head.
“We would have been ready long ago if it had not been for you, Neale,” said Ruth, promptly.
“How’s that? I’ve been up since five. And the car’s right here at the side gate. Cracky! it’s a scrumptious auto, girls. I don’t believe there ever was a finer.”
“When our Mr. Howbridge does anything, he always does it right,” proclaimed Tess, giving up the guardianship of the eggs to Ruth. “And Mr. Howbridge had the car built for us.”