“We’re a parcel of idiots,” remarked Alf earnestly.
“‘We?’” asked Tom in surprise. “No one told me to bring any matches. If they had I’d have brought them. Why, the table was just strewn with them. I noticed them as I left the room.”
“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t put a few in your pocket,” replied Alf disgustedly.
“I thought you were attending to the arrangements,” said Tom unruffledly. “Well, I shall wrap myself in a rug and go to sleep. I just love these al fresco affairs. I could die picnicking—probably of pneumonia!”
“It is fun, isn’t it?” laughed Dan.
“Absolutely matchless,” replied Tom cheerfully.
Alf sniffed disgustedly.
“As there are only two rugs, Tom, you’ll have to take some one in with you,” said Dan. “We might go home and have our luncheon in the room.”
“Go home after coming all the way up here?” said Alf fretfully. “That would be a silly thing to do!”
“Yes, I’m surprised at you, Mr. Vinton,” said Tom severely. “How much better it would be to stay here comfortably and enjoy the dear little breezes that are wandering caressingly down my spine.”