"Because that's part of the skipping game, Bobby. I'd ask the girls
sometimes--and, do you know, I think it would be fine to ask some of
the little girls whom the other boys don't ask. Do you know any?"

Bob considered. "I guess I do. But why do I have to ask them?"

"Because they're not having as much fun as the others. You wouldn't like
never to be asked by anybody, would you?"

"I don't care 'bout any girls ever asking me," Bob insisted stoutly. "I
like boy games better--'circus' and 'grandfather's barn.' Only they let
the girls play those too," he added, disgustedly.

He started away. But he came back again to say, soberly, "I'll ask Jennie
Hobson, if you want me to, Aunt Ellen. She's some like a boy, anyway. Her
hair's cut tight to her head--and her eyes are funny. They don't look at
you the same."

"Do ask her, Bob. And tell me how she liked it." And Ellen looked
affectionately after the small, straight little figure trudging away
down the street.

Martha's plans for her reception went on merrily. On the day set she came
hurrying over before breakfast, to administer to her brother-in-law a
final admonition concerning the coming evening.

"I hope this isn't going to be the busiest day of your life?" she urged
Burns.

"It's bound to be,--getting things clear for to-night," he assured her,