“Hate to stay in the house, and it isn’t any fun to go out.”
“Can’t—can’t we play something?” urged Dorothy Dale, feebly, hearing her friends all blaming the weather for their own shortcomings. It was Saturday afternoon—the first real soft, spring day of the season. It was depressing.
“Ya-as,” yawned Cologne. “Let’s pla-a-ay—wow! That most dislocated my jaws, I declare!”
“Play ‘cumjicum’ or ‘all around the mulberry bush,’” sniffed Edna Black. “You do think we are still kids; don’t you, Doro?”
“I can’t help it,” returned Dorothy, smiling. “You act that way.”
“Oh! listen to her! Villainess!” gasped Tavia, threatening her chum from the broad window sill of Number Nineteen with both clenched fists.
“Well, it isn’t really fitten to go out, as Chloe, the colored maid, says,” remarked Nita. “And what we shall really do with all this long afternoon and evening——”
“Let’s have a sing,” suggested Molly, passing around the last of a box of chocolate fudge she had made.
“Miss Olaine will stop us. She’s got a headache and has retired to her den,” said Dorothy, shaking her head.
“I tell you!” gasped Tavia, quickly. “Let’s play a play—a real play. All dress up, and paint our faces—Ned shall be the hero, and we’ll dress her up like a boy. And I’ll be the adventuress—I really just love to play I’m wicked—for I never get a chance to be.”