The girls found a field car waiting outside the main entrance of the administration building and the driver sped them toward the city.
Mrs. Murphy lived on a side street in a square, two-story frame house. The yard was well kept and a broad, shady porch ran the full length of the front of the house.
“I’ll wait until you know whether you’re going to stay,” said the driver.
Jane seemed to be the self-appointed leader of the group and she hurried up the walk and knocked at the screen door.
“Come in,” called a cheery voice from somewhere in the interior. Jane hesitated for a moment.
“Go on in,” Sue urged, so Jane opened the door and crossed the porch.
“I’m in the kitchen with me hands in bread dough,” explained the voice, in a rich, heavy Irish brogue and Jane knew that Mrs. Murphy in person was at home.
A long hallway led past the living room and the dining room into the kitchen, a large well-lighted room.
Mrs, Murphy, buxom and ruddy of cheek, looked up as Jane entered. Her hands were deep in bread dough.
“Well, goodness sakes alive,” she exclaimed when she saw Jane. “If I’d known it was a stranger, I’d have answered the door. I thought it was Mrs. McGillicuddy down the street, come to borrow something, for she’s always running in of a morning, being short of this or that, and having to have a bit to get along until the delivery boy gets around.”