“Yes, do,” cried Betty. “Ask the Marlowes and the Hillises, and those nice people who live the other side of your house—I forget their name.”
“But we can’t sing this foolishness we’ve written to a lot of strangers,” said Nan.
“Indeed we can,” responded Marguerite. “The Blue Ribbon Club can do anything, if it makes up its mind to.”
“The music would be prettier if we had some men’s voices in it,” said Nan, who was looking over the written sheets. “It’s all so high and light.”
“Uncle Ned sings a fine barytone,” said Marjorie. “Do you suppose he’d help us out, aunty?”
“Of course he would,” answered Aunt Molly, heartily; “he’d do anything in his power for the ‘lambs,’ as he always calls you girls.”
“Let’s write a part for him, then,” said Hester. “What could he be?”
“What is the plot of your play?” asked Aunt Molly.
“Why, it hasn’t any plot,” said Nan. “Do plays always have to have plots? You see, we’ve just written songs for each of us in the characters we’ve assumed down here.”
“Then I don’t exactly see how Uncle Ned could be brought in,” said Aunt Molly, smiling.
“He can’t be _brought_ in; he’ll just have to _come_ in,” said Betty.
“Like a burglar,” said Nan; “we’ve expected one ever since we’ve been here, and we may as well have our expectations realized.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Hester. “The play, of course, will represent all us girls here in this cottage; and Uncle Ned might appear as a burglar—a nice, kind one, you know, like ‘Editha’s Burglar.’”
“Yes, and he can be real affable and social, and sing solos as he prowls about for his plunder.”
“That seems more like a plot. Let’s do it,” said Nan.
Out came the paper-pad and pencils, and genius was set to burning, all of which resulted in several songs for Uncle Ned, whose consent to the plan was fully guaranteed by Aunt Molly.
The Amiable Burglar was destined to enter through a window while singing this solo to the tune of “Robin Adair”:
I am a burglar bold, Fearless and frank; From Fate’s insistent hold Fortunes I yank. When honest people sleep, When cats their vigils keep, Forth on my raids I creep, Robbin’ a bank.
What’s petty larceny to Robbin’ a bank? What is sneak-thievery to Robbin’ a bank? How else is burglary What it’s cracked up to be? Herein is joy for me— Robbin’ a bank.
