“Hist!”
Nita Brent looked over the stooping Edna. Above her head at the narrow opening appeared the rather puffy-looking face of Cologne. It was evident that the “heavy lady” had been asleep, but now she yawned and said:
“Hist twice! Come on, girls!”
“Don’t shoot, Tavia. Like Davy Crockett’s coon, we’ll come down,” said Ned, dodging the threatening book.
“You’ll have Olaine—or some other teacher—upon our trail,” gasped Nita.
“What’s up?” demanded Dorothy, shutting her book and leaving a hairpin for a bookmark.
“We are. So must you be. And they will have to!” declared Ned. “We’re for getting the whole bunch. It’s the Night of the White Giant, I tell you.”
“Oh, goody, goody-gander!” exclaimed Tavia, clapping her hands—but softly. “I had forgotten. We haven’t had one this winter.”
“It’s kid tricks, girls,” complained Dorothy.
“List to her! Wow!” gasped Tavia, and landed a soft sofa pillow right in the back of Dorothy’s neck. “Don’t you dare suggest we’re growing old.”