“Right as a trivet,” Botkins answered.
“What is a trivet, Maida?” Rosie asked in a mystified aside.
“I’ll show in a few minutes, goose,” Maida rejoined. “It’s an English word.”
Botkins, who was English also, began stowing the party away in the automobile: Granny Flynn and Mrs. Dore on the back seats; Betsy and Delia between them; and Mollie and Timmie at their feet. Maida and Laura each holding a very active Clark twin, occupied the little seats. Rosie, to her great delight, was permitted to sit with the driver. The three boys hung onto the running board.
“We look like an orphan-asylum,” Arthur commented as, with a long call of warning from the horn, they started off.
The road stretched straight before them, wide and yellow, furred with trees on both sides; then vanished under an arch of green as it turned to the left.
“Aren’t there any houses in Satuit, Maida?” Laura asked.
“Plenty,” Maida answered. “We’ll come to some in a minute—then to more. In a little while, we’ll go right through the town.”
For a few moments nobody spoke; just watched for the first house. Presently a little white farmhouse, gambrel-roofed and old, popped into view at one side.