“I can’t tell you how surprised I am,” she admitted. “I so very seldom go calling.”
“But you are a Scout and you wouldn’t be unfriendly,” almost charged Cleo.
“Maybe that’s it,” returned Peg; and arm in arm the trio stumbled back to the campfire, for it was quite impossible to walk without stumbling when retarded by darkness from taking the jumps and jerks necessary to the ordeal.
When they reached Camp Comalong Mackey was just starting her story.
[CHAPTER VIII—GLOW OF THE CAMPFIRE’S GLEAM]
“And so the mystery of the ‘Pocket In Black Rock’ was finally cleared up,” ended the story teller, as the big smoldering log fell into the blaze and sent up a “fire-works” of spluttering embers.
The Bobbies hugged the line of waists that sat squat in front of the campfire. Peg had been accorded a seat of honor directly in front of the biggest blaze, and it was not possible to escape her sighs and gasps of rapt attention, as the thrills of the story were unwound, and she jumped up now and smiled so frankly into the face of the director that no shadow of doubt remained as to this strange girl’s sincerity.
“I have never had such a lovely time!” she declared with something of the social habit, “and I’m ever—so thankful to you and the girls.”
The Bobbies were all delighted. Somehow this little woods-girl was so picturesque and fitted in the scene so perfectly now, when the blaze lit up her entire form, as she stood outlined against the night—it was hard to imagine she was in any way queer!
But the next moment she had flung her cape over her shoulders, thrust her fingers into her mouth to make shriller the whistle she emitted, and when Shag leaped “into the ring” she said good-night, repeated it to each section of the group, and then was off with her dog, before the others could offer “to go with her over the hill” or even to ask her to come again.