“I tell you what you do, Molly,” said Spud. “You dream about sixteen dollars instead of eight, and then when Ned finds it you and I’ll divide the other eight!”
“Spud, you’re too silly for anything,” said Molly severely.
“He’s a boiled idiot,” Sandy agreed. “We’ve got to be going, fellows. We’ve had a very nice time, Molly.”
“Yes, thanks, and we’ll come again,” said The Fungus.
“Next Sunday, then,” Molly replied. “Don’t forget. The Pippin Club meets every Sunday afternoon.”
“In their club house on—on Apple Avenue,” added Spud. “I move a vote of thanks to the president for her hospitality. All in favor will signify by taking another apple. It is so moved. As treasurer I’ll take two.”
“A terrible thought strikes me,” said Dutch as they left the club house. “We’ll probably have apple-sauce for supper!”
A groan, loud, prolonged and dismal, arose on the afternoon air. Spud viewed the two pippins in his hands and shook his head over them.
“They don’t look as good as they did,” he muttered. “I guess I’ll put them back—in my pocket.”