"Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra‑a‑a‑a," rang the clear, piercing notes; and out from halls and offices and parlors came a little flock of folk to see that most interesting of arrivals at a summer resort,—a coaching-party. "Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra‑a‑a‑a," wound the coach horn; and up the carriage drive rattled a superb vehicle, drawn by four superb gray horses. The long summer daylight yet lingered, and showed the faces of the party atop of the coach.
"It's the Pelham team, and that's young Berk Pelham holding the reins," said a bystander.
Dora and Amy Robson, who had run out with the others from the dancing-hall, caught Tom Raymond as he was passing them; and Dora whispered,—
"Are they the Pelhams,—Agnes's Pelhams?"
"'Agnes's Pelhams'? Oh, oh!" gurgled Tom, nearly choking with suppressed laughter. Then, "Yes, yes, Agnes's Pelhams; but where is Agnes? She ought to be here to welcome her Pelhams."
"She's gone to bed with a headache or something. She came in looking dreadfully a few minutes ago."
"I should think she might; she had had a blow."
"What do you mean? But, look, look! those Pelhams are speaking to that Smith girl."
"No, they're not."
"But they are, Tom; don't you see?"