CHAPTER VII
THE PROMENADE
“Jo, you’re hurt!” cried Florence. “Look at the blood.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” she replied. “I just left a little skin up there on the wall when I slipped, but it isn’t enough to worry about.” She stopped abruptly, then added, “Oh dear! I was in such a hurry to get down, I forgot and left your parasol up on the roof.”
“Well, let it stay there,” put in Florence quickly. “I’d rather lose the old parasol than have you climb up there again.”
“But I am going up there again,” announced Jo Ann emphatically. “If I can climb down the rope, there’s no reason why I can’t climb back up, is there?”
“N-o—I suppose not,” admitted Florence hesitatingly. “But Jo—you might get hurt—and——”
“Oh, but I know exactly how to fix that rope now so it won’t be so hard to get off the roof next time. I’ll pick a time of day when we won’t have so many spectators, for your sake, Florence.”
Peggy handed Jo Ann a glass of limeade, saying, “Drink this and stop talking about that next time. I’m afraid most of the ice has melted, but it’ll be cool and refreshing, anyway.”
Jo Ann reached over for the glass. “Nothing could be more appreciated right now, though I’m ’most too dirty to drink it.”
“You are a sight, all right,” laughed Peggy. “Soot—blood—dirt—all over your face and arms. We can scarcely tell what color you are. You look more like an Indian in full war paint than anything else.”