“Betty, are you crazy?” cried Mollie. “Stop it this minute and tell us what’s the matter with you.”
“There’s n-nothing the matter with me,” gasped Betty, lifting a face that was flushed with laughter. “Only it’s so—so—funny.”
“Come out of it, Betty Nelson, and explain yourself,” demanded Grace. “What’s so funny?”
“That!” replied Betty, making a little helpless movement with her hand toward the pistol which had dropped unnoticed to the deck. “They—those men—looked so—funny——” She began to laugh again while the girls looked at one another in despair.
“Poor Betty,” sighed Grace. “She was such a happy girl!”
“Never,” retorted Betty, her voice still tremulous with laughter, “as happy as she is at this minute. Oh, girls, it was such a good joke and it got across so beautifully.”
As she threatened to go off again into another paroxysm of mirth, Mollie leaned forward and picked up the pistol from the deck, holding it gingerly.
“If you don’t explain at once, Betty Nelson,” she threatened, “I’ll——” then she stopped while her eyes widened in amazement and dawning comprehension. “Why, it’s—it’s—a fake,” she stammered.
“You wretch,” cried Grace, while Amy leaned over Mollie’s shoulder to peer at the counterfeit weapon. “And all the time you fooled us as much as you did the tramps!”
“Well, you must admit they were some fooled,” said Betty, leaning back, weak with her laughter. “To see them galloping up the hill with a perfectly harmless little toy pointed at their backbone was a sight I’ll never forget. I—I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”