"Second the motion," cried both the girls at once, and as there was no one left to vote on it, it was declared settled.
Dorothy rose, bowed, tapped on the table with the chafing-dish spoon, and said with a fair imitation of her mother's stately manner:
"Ladies, I thank you for the honor you have conferred upon me." Then dropping her official manner, she added, "Let's keep it a dead secret at first from the boys, because they never tell us anything about their old Candle Club."
"What's that?" asked Ruth with great interest.
"Oh, six of the boys belong to it, and they've fixed up one of the rooms above our stable," answered Dorothy. "They call it the Candle Club because at first they used candles, but now the name doesn't fit."
"They might call themselves 'electric sparks,' now," drawled
Charlotte; "but boys are so unprogressive."
"We shall need some more officers," said Betty. "I think Charlotte ought to be secretary because she likes to write, and Ruth—"
What Ruth was to be was not destined to be told at that meeting, for just at that moment there was a loud knock which made the girls jump. Ruth opened the door and for a second saw no one. Then a plump, curly-haired boy, very purple as to his face and hands, and rather bedraggled as to his general appearance, walked in hesitatingly. Close at his heels followed a depressed-looking Scotch terrier. At sight of the latter, every individual hair on Fuzzy's spine stood up straight, and with remarks in several different languages he fled to the top of a high-backed chair, where he sat and glared at the enemy.
The girls were convulsed with laughter, and the small visitor, abashed, fled to Charlotte and buried his face in her lap.
"Irving Eastman, what are you here for?" demanded Charlotte sternly, trying to raise the curly beau so that she might look the culprit in the face.