“Say, Wyn,” charged Thistle, “do you suppose Nora has no other interest than in your visionary prince and yellow curls? Please allow her to listen to some of my woodland lore.”
“Oh, yes,” mocked Betta. “Tell her all about your little fish in the brook that wouldn’t go near Treble’s hook.”
A scamper brookward responded to this sally.
“Oh, there’s Jimmie,” cried Thistle. “Hey Jimsby!” she hailed to a small boy in a big boat. “Wait for us. We are going up to the Ledge. Give us a row?”
Everyone, including Nora, ran towards the edge of the stream that rippled through willows. Jimmie with his boat was rare good fortune to come upon, and the Scouts were instantly eager to procure seats in the big, old skiff.
Nora’s timidity forced her to hold back, but she was too self-conscious to admit it.
“Come on, little Nora,” called out Thistle good naturedly. “I have a place for you right alongside of me.”
“Oh yes. Thistles never sink, you know,” added Wyn.
Nora’s heart heat fast. Could she say she would so much rather walk to the Ledge?
“Hurry up, Sister,” sang out Betta. “Thistle wants to get out of rowing and you are her excuse.”