“But not the same strange men every time,” Lottie put in. This gave a clue to her fright. The men who had secluded themselves under the Lonely Willow that morning had appeared again, this time in the vicinity of the girls’ bungalow, now known as the “Motely Mote.”
CHAPTER VII
IN THE MOTELY MOTE
“Do you young ladies realize that we have the cares of housekeeping on our shoulders?” asked Cora, from a mass of boxes and bags, not to mention trunks, in the alleged living room of the Mote.
“Oh, let us forget it—do,” begged Bess. “I always hate the summertime when it brings dishes and things.”
“It’s good for you,” affirmed Marita. Bess did know that hard work is considered “good” for stout persons.
“Maybe, but it is not pleasant,” Bess answered, flinging herself upon the improvised couch, a matter of hammocks and blankets, still bearing baggage checks and tie-ropes.
“But our housekeeper has given notice,” announced Cora. “And I don’t wonder. Not one has been on time for a single meal since we arrived. But I must say, I wish she had stayed until the stuff was all unpacked. It’s dreadful on the hands,” and she looked at hers ruefully.