“Your car’s awful cute,” commented the girl, slipping her arm through Marjorie’s and conducting her up the steps. “Wouldn’t mind if I was rich myself!”
“Oh, but I didn’t buy that!” Marjorie hastened to inform her. “I earned it—as a reward which was offered to our Girl Scout troop.”
“Gee, do they give things like that in the Scouts!” exclaimed Queenie. “Me for the scouts, every time!”
“There are all sorts of honors and rewards for the girl who works,” Marjorie replied cautiously. “But they do not always take such material form as this one happened to.” She was anxious to dispel Queenie’s false hope that scouting was an easy path to quick riches.
“Tell me how you won it!” pleaded the other, as she directed Marjorie into the room where the rest of the girls were gathered.
“All right—later on,” agreed Marjorie. “But now I want to meet the others.”
The club room was a small one, furnished in the usual plain but cozy style adapted by most of the up-to-date settlement houses. Miss Winthrop occupied a chair beside a substantial mission-table, and two of the girls were perched on top of it, talking in animated tones with the leader. Two or three of the others were apparently listening to the conversation, while over on the window sill, an exceedingly stout young lady was giggling and whispering with a tall slender one. Marjorie took them all in at a glance, and with some difficulty identified them with the elaborately dressed maidens of the dance. They all looked different, she decided, but undoubtedly better.
“Well, Miss Wilkinson, we’re all here—and all glad to see you,” said Miss Winthrop cordially. “I think Queenie had better do the introducing, however, for she is more sure of the names than I am.”
“Oh, she can’t remember them all, anyhow,” protested Queenie, rather embarrassed by the formality of an introduction. “So I won’t have to repeat them—girls—meet Miss Wilkinson!”
“I’m awfully glad to meet you,” said Marjorie graciously. “But Miss Brazier is wrong about my not remembering the names; I want to know them, and I don’t mean to forget them.”
“All right, then—just as you wish, Miss Wilkinson. You know that I’m Queenie Brazier, and—this here girl is Aggie Smithers, this beet-top is Clara Abrams, the tall skinny one at the window is Annie Marshall, this is Stella Cox on the table, with our little mascot beside her—Dottie Williams. And, oh yes, I forgot Fattie Reed—her real name’s Gertie. Now you got ’em all.”