“Like a bird, I know,” chuckled Alling. “That is just the way I sing—like a Burd.”
“I’ve heard of a bird called a crow,” put in Mark Stratford, smiling on the two girl chums. Jessie thought he had a really nice smile. “That is what your voice sounds like, Alling. You couldn’t make the Glee Club in a hundred and forty years.”
“Don’t say a word!” cried Burd. “I’ll be a long time past singing before the end of that term. Ah-ha! Here we are at Roselawn.”
They got out at the Norwood place and the girls insisted upon Mark coming in to afternoon tea, 140 which Amy and Jessie poured on the porch. The chums liked Mark Stratford and they did not believe that he was anywhere near as “sporty” as Burd had intimated. Naturally, a fellow who had driven a warplane and owned an airship now and often went up in it, would consider the driving of a motor-car rather tame. As for his college record, Jessie and Amy later discovered that Mark was a hard student and was at or near the head of his class in most of his studies.
“And he drives that wonderful car of his,” said Amy, with approval, “like a jockey on the track.”
The girl chums did not forget the concert they expected to enjoy that evening, but Darry and Burd left right after dinner for the moorings of the Marigold at City Island. They took Mark Stratford and some other college friends with them for a three days’ trip on the yacht.
Jessie and Amy were eager to see the Marigold; but their parents had forbidden any mixed parties on the yacht until either Mr. and Mrs. Drew, or Mr. and Mrs. Norwood could accompany the young people. That would come later in the summer.
Amy ran over to the Norwood place before half past eight. The concert, Mr. Blair had told them, was to begin at nine. Jessie had learned a good deal about tuning in on the ether by this 141 time; and there is no other part of radio knowledge more necessary if the operator would make full use of his set.
“The bedtime story is just concluded, Amy,” Jessie said when her chum came in. “Sit down. I am going to get that talk on ‘Hairpins and Haricots’ by that extremely funny newspaper man—what is his name?”
“I don’t know. What’s in a name, anyhow?” answered her chum, lightly.