"I might," retorted Ned, "but, being good is such a lonesome job, as some poet has remarked. Now, having fun is--"
"Look out there!" cautioned Nat suddenly. "You nearly ran over Mrs. Brocade's pet pup."
A tiny dog, of the much-admired, white-silk variety, was barking vigorously at the Fire Bird on account of the danger to which it had been subjected by the fat tires. And the dog's mistress, Mrs. Broadbent, nicknamed "Brocade" on account of her weakness for old-time silks and satins, was saying things about the auto party in much the same sort of aggrieved tones that the favorite dog was using.
"Wait until she meets you at the post-office," Nat reminded Ned. "Maybe she won't rustle her silks and satins at you."
But Ned only laughed, and kept on laughing as his mother appeared in the vestibule with a puzzled look at the empty seat in the tonneau of the Fire Bird.
Dorothy was the first to reach the porch.
"She didn't come," was her wholly unnecessary re
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