Tavia met her “cronies” in the cedar clump. They were planning for the “rumpus,” and as the two factions were rivals, each would, of course, try to “perpetrate” the greatest surprise.
Cologne and Ned asked about Dorothy, but Tavia managed to reply without really answering.
“The rumpus this year must be classic,” declared Molly Richards. “We are growing up, and Mrs. Pangborn won’t allow any tom-boying.”
“Then count me out,” announced Tavia, “for I couldn’t have a smitch of fun classicing.”
“You don’t know how much fun it is to try to look in a pool like Psyche, and have a real frog jump out at you. However, if you have no suggestions to make there is no use in telling all ours,” and Molly, or Dick, as they called her, put up her note book.
“I suggest refreshments,” Tavia volunteered, “but I will have to calendar my fee. I am, as usual, penniless.”
“And we are to re-name our club,” said Edna. “What do you think of the Tarts—meaning tarters, of course.”
“I’ll just wager that’s what the ‘T’s’ stand for! Fancy us hitting the same name. Wouldn’t it be a joke,” and, in anticipation, Tavia tossed a ball of grass in Nita Brant’s ear.
“I wouldn’t have that,” declared Ned. “They would call us copy cats!”
“There’s nothing better than the Glens,” Cologne proclaimed. “And, since we are the seniors, I believe we ought to keep to that.”