“We-ell, maybe he didn’t tell the truth,” said Tavia, slowly.
“We’ll find out about that later,” Dorothy declared. “Go on.”
“How?”
“Why, of course we must hunt up these girls and give them something for returning your bag.”
“Oh! I s’pose so,” Tavia said. “Though I guess the little one, Number Forty-seven, wanted to keep it.”
“Now, tell me all” breathed Dorothy, her eyes shining. “All he said—every word.”
“Goodness! I guess your headache is better, Doro Dale,” laughed Tavia, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Dorothy said not a word, but her “listening face” put Tavia on her mettle.
“Well, the very first thing he said,” she told her chum, her eyes dancing, “when I ran up to him and thanked him for getting my bag, was:
“‘Where’s Miss Dale?’
“What do you know about that?” cried Tavia, in high glee. “You have made a deep, wide, long, and high impression—a four-dimension impression—on that young man from the ‘wild and woolly.’ Oh yes, you have!”