Having decided to serenade the unsuspecting proprietor of the tea room, the next point to be settled was where they should stand to sing.
“Wait a minute. I’ll go and look in one of the windows,” volunteered Ronny. “Perhaps I shall be able to see just where he is.”
“He is usually at his desk about this time in the evening. We’ll gather around the window nearest where he is sitting,” planned Phyllis.
Ronny flitted lightly ahead of her companions, stopping at a window on the right-hand side, well to the rear. The others followed her more slowly in order to give her time to make the observation. Before they reached her she turned from her post and came quickly to them.
“He is back at the last table on the left reading a newspaper. There isn’t a soul in the room but himself,” she said in an undertone. “The time couldn’t be more opportune.”
“Oh, fine,” whispered Robin. “We can go around behind the inn and be right at the window nearest him.”
“The non-singers, I suppose we might call ourselves the trailers, will politely station our magnificent selves at the next window above the singers to see how the victim takes it,” decided Jerry. “Contrary, ‘no.’ I don’t hear any opposing voices.”
“There mustn’t be any voices heard for the next two minutes,” warned Portia Graham. “Slide around the inn and take your places as quietly as mice.”
In gleeful silence the girls divided into two groups, each group taking up its separate station.
“I hope the night air hasn’t played havoc with my strings,” breathed Phyllis. “I don’t dare try them. Are we ready?” She rapped softly on the face of her violin with the bow.