“I have no daughters,” returned the superintendent, and the expression of his face changed so swiftly and so strangely that Jessie did not feel that she could make any further comment upon the thought that had stabbed her mind. After all, it seemed like sheer curiosity on her part to ask the man about his family.
“Just the same,” she told Amy afterward, when they were in the automobile once more, “Blair is not such a common name, do you think?”
“But, of course, that Bertha Blair couldn’t be anything to the superintendent of the broadcasting station. Oh, Jessie! What a wonderful program he had arranged for to-day. I am coming over to-night to listen in on that orchestral concert and hear Madame Elva sing. I would not miss it for anything.”
“Suppose we could get a chance to help entertain!” Jessie sighed. “Not, of course, on the same program with such performers as these the Stratford people have. But––”
They happened to be traveling slowly and Mark overheard this. He twisted around in his seat to say: 139
“Why didn’t you ask Blair about it? You have no idea how many amateurs offer their services. And some of them he uses.”
“I’ll say he does!” grumbled Burd. “Some of the singers and others I have listened in on have been punk.”
“Well, I’ll have you know that Jessie and I wouldn’t sing if we could not sing well,” Amy said, with spirit.
“Sure,” agreed Burd, grinning. “Madame Elva wouldn’t be a patch on you two girls singing the ‘Morning Glories’ Buns’ or the ‘Midnight Rolls’.”
“Your taste in music is mighty poor, sure enough, Burd,” commented Darry. “Jessie sings all right. She’s got a voice like a––”