“Let her! She wouldn’t have any proof then. Ned, you’re a diplomat. Suppose you make it your life’s work to recover that silly old pillow-case.”
“Oh, all right. Me for the diplomatic service. When do we get a look at this lady friend of yours, Cal?”
“I don’t know. You see her aunts don’t want her to have anything to do with us, and maybe—”
“Hooray!” shouted The Fungus. “That’s our only hope, fellows. Let’s go over and break a few windows so Miss Matilda will hate us worse than ever.”
“Or we might write an anonymous letter to her telling how depraved we all are,” suggested Spud.
“She says we’re varmints,” said Cal.
“Did she say that?” demanded Spud. “Now I will bust a window for her.” And he took up a tennis racket and made as though to hurl it over the hedge in the direction of the Curtis house.
“Honest to goodness, fellows, there’s something in that,” said Dutch thoughtfully. “If we could only convince the Old Maids that we are really desperate characters it’s a sure thing that she wouldn’t let that obnoxious kid come anywhere near us.”
“But how shall we do it?” asked Sandy.
“I don’t know. We’ll think it over.”