“All the dry snow’s ‘give out’, Nita. We’ve got to use the wet kind,” giggled Tavia.
“If you had two quarts of snow down your back——” began Ned Ebony, in disgust.
“Come on! come on!” urged Cologne. “You’re wasting time. Who knows but Olaine will be out here any minute?”
“Oh, I hope not!” cried one of the other girls. “I am trying my very best to treat her nicely; and I am sorry for her. But she is the most cantankerous thing! So there!”
“Come on! come on!” Tavia kept urging. “Hand ’em up here—— My goodness gracious, Agnes! I almost went down that time. If I only had a nice young man up here to help me hold on this slippery eminence——”
“Where would you ever get a young man—nice or otherwise—at Glenwood?” demanded Ned Ebony.
“Don’t know. Advertise for one, I guess,” grunted the struggling Tavia. “‘Lost, Strayed, or Stolen—One young man—preferably blue eyed.’ Going to put that in the ‘Agony Column’ of the New York Screecher——”
“Oh, Tavia!” gasped Dorothy, standing up straight on the giant’s “waist line” and staring up at her friend.
“What’s up now? Mercy!” ejaculated Tavia, making a grab for her. “You’ll be down next, if you don’t look out. What’s the matter?”
“You—you gave me an idea,” said Dorothy, slowly.