“And you don’t hear people calling over the ‘phome’ unless you happen to be Abbie Abbott,” added Win. “Sounds like a sea song.
“I heard a voice across the foam:
To-night I’ll tread the Garden loam;
Helm hard a-lee, I’m sailing home!”
“Win, you ridiculous fellow!” cried Mary, with her merry laugh.
Jane ran to him and shook him approvingly; Jane could never approve heartily without violence. “You lovely idiot!” she cried.
Florimel dashed into the room and collided with Abbie bringing Saratoga chips and tomatoes. “Oh, gracious!” cried Florimel, dropping into a chair.
“You may well say so!” said Abbie sternly, as she skilfully saved her burden from wreck. “Good thing it wasn’t next trip, with the coffee-pot steaming hot and the diddly cream jug!”
“Now we are all here; we don’t have to wait any longer,” announced Mary, with evident relief. “Grubbing in the garden makes me hungry.”