“You should have gone through the rolls,” ventured Cora. “Though they looked hard, they were as soft as a feather pillow. Come on; there’s time yet.”
But even the inducement of “feather pillows,” would not tempt Bess or Belle to try the machine.
“Well, what next?” asked Jack, as they stood out on the big pier, and listened to the mournful swish of the incoming tide underneath. “What do you say to another moving picture show, or the band concert, or some salt-water taffy or even a lobster supper? I’m game.”
“I vote for lobsters,” called Ed.
“Because they’re such friends of yours,” retorted Walter.
“Mighty good friends, at the prices they charge down here,” commented Paul. “I haven’t dared look one in the face.”
“Silly—a lobster hasn’t a face,” said his sister.
“Well, their eyes, then,” amended Paul.
“I think my sister and I must really go,” came from Paul. “It is getting late—for us.”
“Yes, it is too late for anything more to-night,” was Cora’s retort. “If we don’t get in on good time, you know, boys, our liberty on other occasions may be restricted.”