“We love to carry you,” insisted Wyn. “Besides, we know it’s our last chance. Alma will be unconscious in the throes of love from this on,” she finished with a lurch that brought the erstwhile prince to “his” feet in spite of their intentions.
A few more accidents, minor and major, according to the way said accidents were accepted, and the squad arrived at Chickadee. Nora was now more embarrassed than ever. How could she again go in among all those sensibly-clad girls in that ridiculous costume? Besides, now she was bound to tell the whole miserable story.
“Where have you girls been?” began Becky, who stood waiting. “Did you not know this was story night?”
“We have been out scouting, and we did,” replied Thistle in her most docile tone. “Becky, love, we have the bravest thrill of our entire career to unfold.”
“Begin, please, by explaining the infraction of hours,” said Miss Beckwith, although her manner belied her demand, and the summer twilight lasted.
“The thrill is none other than someone, anyone, dying of moans,” said Wyn. “We have with us tonight——”
At this she craned her neck over the tallest of them to locate little Nora. But she, the guest of honor, was hiding behind Treble.
“When you hear the whole wonderful tale,” promised Pell, “you will only be sorry you were not along. We have been out gunning for attic ghosts.” After more talk of this variety Nora was dragged forth.
How pretty she looked in the camp light! A glow from the fire that had been lighted for stories, surrounded the little prince, and, as the picturesque figure stood in the center of the group of admiring eyes, even the glory of the modern Scout uniform was threatened with eclipse. In the late twilight the effect was entrancing.
“Isn’t she darling?”