“What?” asked Dorothy.
“The person who took my bag will go and blow themselves to a fancy dinner—oh! better even than this one. I only hope he or she will eat so much that they will be sick——”
“Don’t! don’t!” begged Dorothy, stopping her ears. “You are dreadfully mixed in your grammar.”
“Do you wonder? After having been robbed so ruthlessly?”
“But, certainly, dear,” cooed Dorothy, “your knowledge of grammar was not in your bag, too?”
Thus they joked over Tavia’s tragedy; but all the time Dorothy’s agile mind was working hard to scheme out a way to help her chum over this very, very hard place.
Just at this time, however, she had to give some thought to Garry Knapp. He took out three slips of pasteboard toward the end of the very pleasant meal and flipped them upon the cloth.
“I took a chance,” he said, in his boyish way. “There’s a good show down the street—kill a little time. Vaudeville and pictures. Good seats.”
“Oh, let’s!” cried Tavia, clasping her hands.
Dorothy knew that the theatre in question was respectable enough, although the entertainment was not of the Broadway class. But she knew, too, that this young man from the West probably could not afford to pay two dollars or more for a seat for an evening’s pleasure.