“Her niece! Jee-roo-sa-LEM!” cried Don. “Do you know who her niece is?”
“Not I,” said Ranald, looking rather alarmed.
“Well, she is the daughter of the big lumberman, St. Clair, and she is a great swell.”
Ranald stood speechless.
“That does beat all,” pursued Don; “and you asked her to our camp?”
Then Ranald grew angry. “And why not?” he said, defiantly. “What is wrong about that?”
“O, nothing much,” laughed Don, “if I had done it, but for you, Ranald! Why, what will you do with that swell young lady from the city?”
“I will just do nothing,” said Ranald. “There will be you and Mrs. Murray, and—”
“Oh, I say,” burst in Don, “that's bully! Let's ask some of the boys, and—your aunt, and—my mother, and—some of the girls.”
“Oh, shucks!” said Ranald, angrily. “You just want Marget Aird.”