"And for a Chris! That would be all right also," added Tavia. "Well, I know one or two."
"There is someone coming to call us," and Dorothy jumped to her feet. "I must bathe my stupid eyes."
A half hour later the meeting was called. It was held in a little recreation room on the third floor. To this spot the candidates were led blindfolded. Within the room the shuffling of feet could be heard, then a weird voice said in a muffled tone:
"Hear ye! Honored Nicks! Let their scales fall!"
At the word the bandages were dropped from the eyes of Dorothy and Tavia.
A glimpse around the half-lighted room showed a company of masked faces and shrouded forms—sheets and white paper arrangements. On the window seat sat the Most High Nick—the promoter. At her feet was crouched the Chief Ranger.
"Number one!" called the Ranger, and Dorothy was pressed forward.
"Chase that thimble across the room with your nose," demanded the Ranger, placing a silver thimble at Dorothy's feet.
Of course Dorothy laughed—all candidates do—at first.
"Wipe your smile off," ordered the Promoter, and at this Dorothy was obliged to "wipe the smile" on the rather uncertain rug, by brushing her mouth into the very depths of the carpet.