Bertha Blair had been at one time a mystery to the Radio Girls. A witness in a very important law case being tried by Mr. Norwood, she had been spirited off by unscrupulous persons and kept in captivity in order that her testimony might not be forthcoming.

How the girl managed to reach a sending set in the tower of the old house where she was kept captive and send out a cry for help over the airways, and how the Radio Girls heard the cry for help over their own receiving set and hurried to the rescue, formed an incident of thrilling interest. Later, this same Bertha Blair had been revealed to the girls as the niece of Mr. Blair, superintendent of the Stratford Electric Company.

At that moment Jessie saw Bertha coming toward them, holding the freckle-faced child by the arm and looking decidedly angry and out of sorts.

“Henrietta is certainly ruining my disposition,” was her greeting to the two sympathetic girls. “I never know where she is from one moment to the next. I would rather take a nest of hornets shopping than Hen.”

“That seems kind of foolish, Bertha,” remarked the strange child, gravely. “’Cause, you know, hornets don’t need clothes near as much as me!”

Seeing that Amy was about to go into another paroxysm of mirth, Jessie hastily suggested lunch, a suggestion received with relief by Bertha and exuberance by Henrietta.

“Miss Jessie seems to know just the sort of thing a body wants,” remarked the child, and Bertha, looking at Jessie, smiled.

“I really don’t know what I shall do with her,” she said, in a low tone, as, after Jessie and Amy had each telephoned that they would stay in town for lunch, they all walked toward the restaurant. “She used to be bad enough, that’s a fact, but now there is no doing anything with her. Since she found out she owns that island——”

“I own a island, I own a island, I own a island,” chanted the child, catching the last part of Bertha’s low-spoken sentence. “I own a island, I own a——” But the last words had risen to so shrill a tone that people were glancing curiously at them and Jessie felt called upon to interfere.

“Even if you do own an island, or part of one,” she said gently, “you don’t need to tell everybody about it, dear.”

“Well,” said the child, wrinkling up her funny little nose, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell everybody as long as it ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed about.”

“Oh, Henrietta, Henrietta!” laughed Amy, gleefully. “How dull this life would be without you!”

“Yes’m,” agreed Henrietta, dutifully.

Bertha explained her presence in New Melford and then asked the girls why they had come downtown. When they told her about the proposed trip to Forest Lodge little Henrietta’s face fell woefully.

“Then I won’t get to see you for two whole weeks,” mourned the little girl. But she soon added, with a sudden brightness of countenance: “I don’t suppose it would be noways possible to take me along, would it?”

“I am afraid not, dear,” said Jessie, slipping an arm about the wistful little thing while Amy stifled a laugh at thought of what the boys would say if they proposed “ringing little Hen in on the trip.” “You will have to be at hand, anyway,” she added with sudden inspiration, “in case anything comes up about your island.”

Little Hen’s face immediately lost all trace of wistfulness. Her small countenance assumed the expression of importance it always wore when any one mentioned “her island.”

“That’s so, Miss Jessie,” she agreed gravely. “I just couldn’t go and leave my island.”

Henrietta’s appetite had long been a marvel to the girls, but on this occasion it seemed to them she put to shame all previous records.

However, the girls noticed with approval—for they were really fond of the wild little thing—that Henrietta’s arms and legs had lost somewhat their resemblance to very thin broomsticks. Prosperity was agreeing with the child. She was actually taking on flesh.

The girls remarked this aloud, and to their surprise Henrietta looked more worried than pleased.

“I don’t know what I would do if I was to get fat like Mrs. Foley,” she complained. “Mrs. Foley always said she was skinny just like me when she was a kid, and she didn’t begin to put on flesh till she was forty. Just think, if I was to get fat like her, I couldn’t never wear no more stylish clo’es!” and she gazed at the girls with tragic eyes.

“You are right, you couldn’t!” laughed Amy, adding in an undertone to Jessie, “Just imagine Mrs. Foley in a coat suit!”

As they started to leave the restaurant, Amy suddenly turned and made as though she would retrace her steps.

“What’s the matter?” asked Henrietta, solicitously. “See a snake or somethin’?”

“Something lots worse,” returned Amy, with a giggle, and pointed to a group of girls who had just turned the corner and were coming toward them. “Here come Belle Ringold and Sally, Jess. Can’t we dive into a hole somewhere until they get past?”

“Too late,” sighed Jessie, with a sure knowledge of unpleasantness to come. “If we had only known we could have stayed in the restaurant and avoided them. Well, come along. We can’t get away from them now.”

Belle Ringold and Sally Moon were two very unpleasant girls whom most of the people in New Melford disliked intensely. Belle and Sally had few friends, and those only the kind whose friendship can be bought with money and good times.

Because Jessie and Amy, on the other hand, were popular with their townspeople and belonged to the class of girls who “do something,” Belle and Sally centered their spleen upon them, and the girls rarely met but what unpleasant words were passed. For that reason Jessie and Amy avoided the unpleasant girls whenever it was possible to do so. Now, however, it seemed that a meeting was inevitable.

Jessie and Amy, with Bertha and Hen beside them, quickened their pace in order to pass Belle Ringold and her “crowd” as soon as possible.

It was plain that Belle welcomed the meeting as much as the other girls disliked it, for quarreling, especially with such foes as Jessie and Amy, was the breath of life to her. So, instead of stepping aside to let them pass, she stopped directly in front of them, making it impossible for them to get by without walking into the street.

Jessie clasped little Hen’s hand tightly in her own, for the child hated Belle Ringold with a consuming hatred and was accustomed to declare this feeling with appalling frankness. Even now, upon stealing a sidewise glance at her, Jessie could see that the child was bristling like a ruffled hen.

“Well, it is all very well for you to look so innocent, you two,” cried Belle Ringold, charging hotly into the fray. “But perhaps you wouldn’t if you knew what I know about you.”

“Anything new?” queried Amy, with deceptive sweetness.

“Oh, nothing much,” declared Belle, with a toss of her head. “Only a little thing, like passing counterfeit bills!”