"I never ate a really truly hotel dinner before," confided Bettie, happily. "And to think," sighed Jean, contentedly, "of doing it without knowing you were going to! That always makes things nicer." "And I _never_ expected to ride in a navy-blue automobile," murmured Marjory. "Or to have four kinds of potatoes," breathed Mabel, who sat half surrounded by empty dishes--"little birds' bath-tubs," she called them. "You must be a vegetarian," smiled Mr. Black. "N-no," denied Mabel. "Only a potatorian." "Mabel!" objected Marjory. "There isn't any such word." "Yes, there is," returned Mabel, calmly. "I just made it." "Well, I'm sure," sighed Mrs. Crane, "I never expected to have any such birthday as this." "You see," said Mr. Black, giving his sister's plump elbow a kindly squeeze, "this is a good many birthdays rolled into one." "It seems hard," mourned Mabel, who was earnestly scanning the bill of fare, "to read about so many kinds of dessert when you've room enough left for only three. I wish I'd began saving space sooner." "You're in luck," laughed Bettie. "A very small, thin one is all _I_ can manage--pineapple ice, I guess." "Anyway," said Marjory, "I shan't choose bread pudding. We have that every Tuesday and Friday at home. Aunty Jane has regular times for everything, so I always know just what's coming. I'm going to have something different--hot mince pie, I guess." "Ice-cream," said Jean, "with hot chocolate sauce." "Bring _me_," said Mabel, turning to the waiter, "hot mince pie, ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce and a pineapple ice with little cakes." "Bring little cakes for everybody," added Mr. Black. "I declare," said Mrs. Crane, "I don't know when I've been so hungry." "Now," remarked Mr. Black, half an hour later, "I think we'd better be jogging along toward home because it won't be as warm when the sun goes down and I want to show you some of the sights in Bancroft--there's a pretty good candy shop a few blocks from here--before we start toward Lakeville. We can run down in about an hour." "Peter," demanded Mrs. Crane, "what _is_ that speed limit?" "About eight miles an hour." "Hum--and it's seventeen miles----" "Now, Sarah, don't go to doing arithmetic--you know you were never very good at it. If I were to keep strictly within that limit you'd all want to get out and push. Got all your wraps? Whose muff is this? Here's a glove. Whose neck belongs to this pussy-cat thing? Here's a handkerchief and two more gloves--Well, well! It's a good thing you had somebody along to gather up your duds. What! My hat? Why, that's so, I _did_ have a cap--here it is in my coat pocket."