“She’s too stuck up to live!”
“Isn’t she!”
That was about the gist of it. But the unfriendly ones had their troubles for their opinions, as Gloria hurried home, first making sure her Aunt Hattie was better, and then proceeding to wheel away. Mrs. Towers was getting well as quickly “as a lanced finger” Martha Drake said, and her real trouble had been the delaying in “lancing,” this term representing the unburdening of her mind on Gloria’s money and the house deed that stood for it. No questions were asked when Gloria waved a good-bye and promised to be back “early,” but she turned her head over her shoulder and shouted “good-bye” again as she sped out the gate through the low cut hedge.
“I guess I’m romantic,” she was accusing, that one persistent thought of “her own house that nobody wants” demanding constant mental attention. “But all the same, it’s more interesting than going to a poky old boarding school,” she derided.
Marty met her at the Twin Butternuts. He wanted to tell her so many things about his reconstructed home, with Mrs. Berg there all the time, and the baby sleeping all night long, and his mother going to be operated upon, that Gloria felt obliged to accept the appreciated report with a hasty word and reminder. They had to hurry, it might rain again.
“And dad’s tickled to death,” he flung in recklessly. “Says the op’ration ’ul fix ma fine, and says she’s got a swell nurse,” he puffed, in rhythm to the pumping of his wheel.
“Is he satisfied about the money now?” Gloria asked. She hoped he would cease “hounding” her Uncle Charley.
“Oh, ye’ah, yeah, sure,” replied Marty. “Gee whiz! He thinks you girls are wonders!”
They were leaving the village behind them now, and entering one of those suburbs outlined by indiscriminate dumps, struggling trees, railroad gardens and fearless, little, puddily brooks.
“We’re near there,” announced the scout. “This is the junction.”