The Campfire Girls Go Motoring | Page 9

the hotel as
a place where we could spend the night, and your maid admitted us and
brought us in here. Is there anything the matter?"
The woman stood staring as if fascinated at the towels which were
lying all over the floor. At that moment Nakwisi opened the door of the
bath and emerged in her dressing-gown, the open door behind her
revealing splashes of water all over the room and more towels on the
floor. The woman put her hand to her throat as if she were choking. She
tried to speak but evidently could not.
"Isn't this Mrs. Butler's house?" asked Nyoda, with growing misgiving.
"Don't you take in tourists when the hotel is filled?"
The woman swallowed convulsively and found her voice. "No," she
said, emphatically, "this is not Mrs. Butler's house, and I don't take in
tourists when the hotel is filled. This is the McAlpine residence and my
husband is State Senator McAlpine. My daughter is getting married
to-night and we have a houseful of wedding guests. We had two special
trains, one from Chicago and one from New York, bringing guests. If

my maid let you in she thought you were some of them." Then she
looked around the room and seemed on the verge of apoplexy once
more. "But how did you get in here?" she cried, wildly. "This is the
bridal chamber!"
I suddenly felt weak in the back-bone, and thought my head was going
to drop into my lap. The towel fell from Nyoda's shoulders and she
stood there like a statue with her long hair around her. Sahwah stopped
still with her foot on the stool and the handful of towels in her hand.
For one moment we remained as if turned to stone and then Sahwah
buried her face in the towels with a muffled shriek. If embarrassment
ever killed people I know not one of us would have survived. Nyoda
apologised profusely for our intrusion, which, after all, was not our
fault, as we soon found. The hotel man had told us number 65 South
Vine Street when it was number 65 North Vine Street he had meant.
We got dressed faster than we ever had before in our lives and packed
up our scattered belongings, leaving the rooms nearly as tidy as they
were when we came in. Mrs. McAlpine had withdrawn into the next
room, and through the closed door we could hear the sound of excited
talking and knew that she was telling the story to someone. When she
had finished we heard a man's voice raised in a regular bellow.
Evidently it had struck him as funny.
"No!" we heard him chortle. "You don't mean it! Got put into the bridal
chamber, ha, ha! When you wouldn't let me put a foot into it! Took a
bath and used up all the wedding towels that you wouldn't even let me
touch! Oh, ha! ha! ha!" The very house seemed to shake with the
violence of his mirth. Senator McAlpine, for we judged it was he, must
have had a sense of humor. "Where are they?" we heard him shout.
"Let me see them!"
But at the thought of facing that battery of laughter we fled in haste.
Feeling unutterably small and ridiculous, we crept down-stairs and out
of the front door, past numbers of people who were arriving. Once out
on the sidewalk we leaned against the ornamental iron fence and
laughed until we cried. The more we thought about it the funnier it
seemed. What a tale we would have to tell the other girls when we met

them in the morning!
As we had had our bath there only remained supper, and we certainly
did justice to it when we finally arrived at Mrs. Butler's house on North
Vine Street. It was after eight o'clock and we were ravenous. The
rooms we had in that house, while they were nothing compared to what
we almost had, were still very comfortable, and we were in such high
spirits that any place at all would have looked good to us. Our long day
in the open air had made us sleepy and it was not long before we were
all touring in the Car of Dreams.
While we were eating breakfast in Mrs. Butler's big, airy dining-room
we heard a boy arrive at the kitchen door and ask for the "automobile
ladies." He had been sent out from the telegraph office and the hotel
clerk had told him where we were. He handed Nyoda a message. As
she read it a surprised and puzzled look came into her face.
"What is it, Nyoda?" we all cried.
She handed us the bit of yellow paper. It was what is called a service
message from the telegraph