The Motor Girls on the Coast: or, The Waif From the Sea

The Motor Girls on the Coast: or, The Waif From the Sea
Margaret Penrose

Penrose Margaret

The Motor Girls on the Coast; or, The Waif From the Sea

CHAPTER I

A FLASH OF FIRE

Filled was the room with boys and girls–yes, literally filled; for they moved about so from chair to chair, from divan to sofa, from one side of the apartment to the other, now and then changing corners after the manner of the old-fashioned game of “puss,” that what they lacked in numbers they more than made up in activity. It was a veritable moving picture of healthful, happy young persons. And the talk – !

Questions and answers flew back and forth like tennis balls in a set of doubles. Repartee mingled with delicate sarcasm, and new, and almost indefinable shades of meaning were given to old and trite expressions.

“You can depend upon it, Sis!” drawled Jack Kimball as he stretched out his foot to see how far he could reach on the Persian rug without falling off his chair; “you can depend upon it that Belle will shy at the last moment. She’s afraid of water, the plain, common or garden variety of water. And when it comes to ripples, to say nothing of waves, she – ”

“Cora, can’t you make him behave?” demanded the plump Belle in question.

“Belle’s too–er–too–tired to get up and do it herself,” scoffed Ed Foster. “May I oblige you, Belle, and tweak his nose for him?”

“Come and try it!” challenged Jack.

“Let Walter do it,” advised Bess, who, the very opposite type of her sister Belle, tall and willowy–æsthetic in a word–walked to another divan over which she proceeded to “drape herself,” as Cora expressed it.

“Well, let’s hear what Jack has to say,” proposed Walter Pennington, bringing his head of crisp brown hair a little closer to the chestnut one of Bess. “He has made a statement, and it is now–will you permit me to say it–it is now strictly up to him to prove it. Say on, rash youth, and let us hear why it is that Belle will shy at the water.”

“It’s a riddle, perhaps,” suggested Eline Carleton, a visitor from Chicago. “I love to guess riddles! Say it again, Jack, do!”

“Why is a raindrop – ” began Norton Randolf, a newcomer in Chelton. “The answer is – ”

“That you can bring water to a horse, even if you can’t make him stand still without hitching,” interrupted Walter. “Go on, Jack!”

“I don’t see much use in going on, if you fellows–and I beg your collective pardons–the ladies also–are to interrupt me all the while.”

“That’s so–let’s play the game fair,” suggested Eline. “Is it a riddle, Jack? Belle is afraid of the water because–let me see–because it can’t spoil her complexion no matter whether it’s salt or fresh–is that it?” and she glanced over at the slightly pouting Belle, whose rosy complexion was often the envy of less happily endowed girls.

“I’m not afraid of the water!” declared Belle. “I don’t see why he says so, anyhow. It–it isn’t–kind.”

“Forgive me, Belle!” and Jack “slumped” from his chair to his knees before the offended one. “I do beg your pardon, but you know that ever since we proposed this auto trip to Sandy Point Cove you’ve hung back on some pretext or other. You’ve even tried to get us to consent to a land trip. But, in the language of the immortal Mr. Shakespeare, there is nothing doing. We are going to the coast.”

“Of course I’m coming, too,” said Belle. “Stop it, Jack!” she commanded, drawing her plump hand away from his brown palm. “Behave yourself! Only,” she went on, as the others ceased laughing, “only sometimes the ocean seems so–so – ”

“Oceany,” supplied Walter.

“Now Jack–and you other boys also,” said Cora in firm tones, “really it isn’t fair. Belle is nervous about water, just as the rest of us are about some other particular bugbear, but she is also reasonable, and she has even promised to learn to swim.”

Cora brushed from the mahogany centre table a few morsels of withered lilac petals, for, in spite of the most careful dusting and setting to rights of the room, those blooms had a persistent way of dropping off.

“Belle swim!” cried Jack, rising to his feet, since his advances had been repulsed, “why she would have to be done up in a barrel of life preservers, and then she’d insist on being anchored to shore by a ship’s cable. Belle swim!”

“Indeed!” retorted his sister, “you’ll soon find that the more nervous a girl is, the more persistent she is to learn to swim. She realizes the necessity of not losing her head in the water.”

“If she lost her head she wouldn’t swim very far,” put in Ed with gentle sarcasm.

“Put him out!” ordered Walter. “But say, when are we going to get down to the horrible details, and make some definite plans? This sort of a tea party suits me all right–don’t mistake me,” he hastened to add, with a glance at Cora, “but if we are going, let’s–go!”

“That’s what I say,” came from Belle. “You won’t find me holding back,” and she crossed the room to look out of the parlor window across the Kimball lawn.

“My! That’s a stunning dress!” exclaimed Jack. “Fish-line color, isn’t it?”

“He’s trying to make amends. Don’t you believe him,” echoed Walter.

“Fish-line color!” mocked Cora. “Oh, Jack, you are hopeless! That’s the newest shade of pearl.”

“Well, I almost hit it,” defended Jack. “Pearls are related to fishes, and fish lines are – ”

“Oh, get a map!” groaned Ed. “Do you always have to make diagrams of your jokes that way, old man?”

“Let’s go outside,” proposed Cora. “I’m sure it’s getting stuffy in here – ”

“Well, I like that!” cried Belle. “After she asked us to come, she calls us stuffy! Cora Kimball!”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way at all,” protested the young hostess. “But it is close and sultry. I shouldn’t wonder but what we’d have a thunder-shower.”

“Don’t say that!” pleaded Jack, in what Walter termed his theatrical voice. “A shower means water, and Belle and water – ”

“Stop it!” commanded the pestered one. “Do come out,” and she linked her arm in that of Cora. “Maybe we can talk sense if we get in the open.”

The young people drifted from the room, out on the broad porch and thence down under the cedars that lined the path. It was late afternoon, and though the sky was clouding over, there shot through the masses now and then a shaft of sun that fell on the walk between the tree branches, bringing into relief the figures that “crunched” their way along the gravel, talking rapidly the while.

“Looks like a rare old reunion,” spoke Jack. “I guess we’ll do something worth while after all.”

“Don’t distress yourself too much, old man,” warned Ed. “You might get a sun-stroke, you know.”

“That’s the time you beat him to it,” chuckled Walter. “Do they do this sort of thing out your way?” and he addressed pretty Eline.

She blushed a charming pink under her coat of tan–a real biscuit brown, it had been voted by her admirers. She reminded them of a little red squirrel, for she had rather that same timid appearance, and she nearly always dressed in tan or brown, to match her complexion.

“Sometimes,” she murmured.

“Chicago – ” began Jack in rather judicial tones.

“You let Chicago alone!” advised Walter. “I’m looking after Eline. I won’t let them hurt you,” and he moved closer to her. She seemed to shrink, whereat the others laughed.

They walked about for a little while, strolling out to the Kimball garage–a rebuilt stable, where three fine machines now stood, two of them having brought the visitors. Then when they had acquired the necessary breath of air, they went back into the house.

Eline matched herself up to a Chippendale chair, while Belle, always fond of plenty of room, found it on a divan. Bess had secured one of those Roman chairs curved up at both ends, seemingly intended to prevent anyone from sitting anywhere but in the exact center. She assumed a graceful pose–everything Bess did had that attribute.

“My! it is certainly getting warmer!” complained Walter. “Maybe we should have stayed out.”