“He talked sense, though,” asserted Lee, warmly.
“Of course. The Turners always do.” Laurie steered Ned toward the entrance of East Hall. “Well, good night, Lee. See you at the fête!”
Upstairs, Ned tossed his cap to the bed, plumped himself into a chair at the table, and drew paper and pencil to him. “Now,” he said, “let’s figure this out. I’ve got to talk turkey to those fellows to-morrow. What’s your idea, partner?”
“Hey, where do you get that stuff?” demanded Laurie. “Why drag me into it? It’s not my fête. I don’t own it.”
“Shut up and sit down there before I punch your head. You’ve got to help with this. The honor of the Turners is at stake!”
So Laurie subsided and for more than an hour he and Ned racked their brains and gradually the plan took shape.
CHAPTER XII—THE COMMITTEE ON ARRANGEMENTS
“It’s like this,” explained Ned. He and Laurie and Polly and Mae Ferrand were in the little garden behind the shop. The girls were on the bench and the boys were seated on the turf before the arbor, their knees encircled with their arms. A few yards away Antoinette eyed them gravely and twitched her nose. On the porch step, Towser, the big black cat, blinked benignly, sometimes shifting his gaze to the branches of the maple in the next yard, where an impudent black-and-white woodpecker was seeking a late luncheon.
“There are two sub-committees,” continued Ned, earnestly. “Whipple and Cooper are the Committee on Finance and Publicity, and Laurie and I are the Committee on Arrangements. I told them I had to have help and so they took Laurie in.”
“No thanks to you,” grumbled Laurie, who was, however, secretly much pleased.