“That’s because you aren’t looking,” laughed Winona.
She pointed towards the little tent that draped the kitchen door. From out that tent issued haughtily Thomas’s two negro waiters, each bearing a steaming, creamed-oyster-laden tray.
“You’d better sit down,” suggested Winona, “Everybody else has.”
“Well, this is great!” cried Billy enthusiastically, between bites of creamed oysters and sandwiches, and sips of fruit lemonade that was really better than that the Bent Street gang had stolen. “You don’t mean to say you girls did all this right off the bat, while we were hunting the hoodlums, do you?”
“Why, of course we did,” and Winona dimpled with pleasure. “There were such a lot of us that it wasn’t hard at all.”
“Anyhow, whoever managed it was a mighty clever person,” said Billy, meditatively eating his last oyster. “Don’t you think so?”
This happened to be a rather embarrassing question.
“Why, no!” she said thoughtlessly.
“Then it was you!” said Billy, jumping cleverly to his conclusion.
“We all helped,” said Winona, blushing. “Everybody brought something. I only thought of it first—that was easy.”