“All right, only don’t do it again,” begged Frank. “Say, but it smarts! I wonder what olive juice is made of, anyhow. I mean the stuff they swim the green fruit in.”
“Nothing but salt and water,” declared Phil.
“Nonsense. It’s sulphuric acid, to say the least,” declared Frank. “It feels so in my eye, anyhow. I wonder if they’re French or Italian olives?”
“What difference does it make?” asked Sid.
“Lots. I never can bear French olives, and I wouldn’t have the juice of them in my eye for anything.”
“Oh get out!” laughed Phil. “They’re Italian all right. Pass the mustard for the sandwiches, and let’s get this over with.”
“I thought you liked it,” spoke his sister.
“So I do, but if any more accidents happen I’ll lose my appetite.” And so the merry lunch went on.
The May walk was a great success—at least so nearly every one voted. If there were some who had little heart-burnings it was but natural perhaps, and they would not last long. Miss Philock was at her best, and allowed the girls under her charge more than the usual liberties. There was more or less formality connected with the affair, and some note-taking in regard to the flora encountered along the way was required. But it was, in most cases, the very smallest minimum that would serve to get the necessary class marks.
The lunches had been eaten, and the boys and girls strolled about the grove. Madge had not been near her chums all day, and they felt it keenly, though from a distance she had gaily waved her hand to them. The boys had rather lost interest in the identity of her companion.