Ernest flung his arm up in defense as Jane threw herself joyfully upon him.
“Ernest Morton, you mean thing—tell me this minute or I’ll tickle you.”
“Pooh, you couldn’t tickle a fly. Think you’re smart, don’t you? I’m going to tell you next Saturday and not one second sooner so you don’t need to tease.”
“Next Saturday? Is it a picnic? Am I going?”
“Sha’n’t tell you what it is, but you’re going.”
“Goody! Are Katy and Gertie going?”
Ernest saw that she was getting perilously near the facts and considered.
“Tell you next Saturday,” he replied tantalizingly.
“Please, Ernest, just tell me that.”
“Nope, little girls shouldn’t be so curious.”