“We might get one, though,” said Spud helpfully. Molly pouted.
“Oh, if you’re going to make fun of me—”
“We’re not,” protested Ned. “It’s a wonderful scheme. You go ahead and dream, Molly, and see what happens.”
“Maybe you’d better eat some mince pie or a welsh rarebit or something before you go to bed,” said Sandy, “so you’ll be sure to dream.”
“I always dream,” replied Molly. “Every night of my life. And some of them are just beautiful!”
“Wish mine were,” said Spud. “Mine are just awful. You and Cal ought to compare symptoms. Cal has a fine time dreaming, don’t you, Cal? Remember the night Ned lost his money you dreamed of thieves?”
“Really?” cried Molly. “Then it was thieves that took your money, Ned!”
“I guess it was—if the money was taken. I guess, though, that I just mislaid it.”
“Gee,” said The Fungus admiringly, “you talk of mislaying eight dollars as though it was eight cents! Wish I was rich like that.”