The Mysterious Visitor

but their first job had been to build screens for the windows and doors. That was because Honey hated bugs and also because, when they first held informal meetings without screens, they had spent most of their time slapping at mosquitoes.
    The tumbledown cottage was ideal for a secret clubhouse, because it had been the gatehouse of the manor in the days of carriages and sleighs, and even at this time of the year when the leaves were falling, it was almost completely hidden by ropelike vines and evergreen branches. A narrow but thickly wooded section separated it from Glen Road, and only if you knew it was there could you see it from the veranda of the big house.
    All of the Bob-Whites had worked hard to earn the money for the necessary material to make the clubhouse snug and attractive. Even Jim, who had inherited half a million dollars when his miserly great-uncle died, had worked. Honey had earned her share through mending jobs, although her father, if he had known she needed money, would have given her enough so that the clubhouse would have been a little palace long ago. But one rule of the club was that every member must contribute to it money he or she had earned.
    Trixie knew that she couldn’t help the boys finish shingling the roof. "All right," she said again. "I’ll clean the garage. You’ll help me, won’t you, Bobby?"
    "No," Bobby said decisively. "I’m a boy. I’m gonna holp the big boys jingle the roof."
    Trixie laughed. "You sound like Di Lynch when she has stage fright. I remember in one school play, when she was not much older than you, Bobby, she called Benedict Arnold ‘Arnold Benedict’ from beginning to end. Do you know who Benedict Arnold was?"
    He shook his curls. "No."
    Mart raced off up the driveway and into the house. Bobby started to trot after him, but Trixie grabbed his hand. "If you’ll help me clean the garage, I’ll tell you about Benedict Arnold. It’s a very exciting story."
    "Okeydokey," Bobby agreed.
    "I’ve got to change into blue jeans and an old shirt," Trixie told him. "You wait here for me on the terrace. Moms must have your orange juice ready. You can drink it with a straw and blow orange juice bubbles until I come back out again." Trixie was only too glad to change. One thing she hadn’t liked about entering junior high was that none of the girls wore jeans to school anymore. Even the most tomboyish ones wore sweaters and skirts. Di Lynch, who wasn’t a tomboy at all, had worn jeans until her father got rich. And this year she had started wearing dresses to school—the kind of dresses, Trixie reflected, that made her look as though she were going to a party. And on cool days when the others wore sport jackets, Di appeared in a pretty pale blue coat that made her look more than ever as though she were going to a party.
    "Di has changed a lot," Trixie decided as she and Bobby started to work on the garage. "She never seems to have fun anymore. Maybe it’s because she’s always so dressed up. Goodness knows, I can’t have any fun unless I’m wearing jeans." Then she dismissed Di from her mind.
    It was five o’clock by the time that Trixie, more hindered than helped by Bobby, finished cleaning the garage. Her mother joined them then, half-smiling, half-frowning.
    "At least your father can get the car inside," Mrs. Belden said. "But where are the things that are to be burned or given to the scrap drive?" "There aren’t any," Trixie cried in despair. "Bobby wouldn’t part with a single one of his treasures and, well, neither would I." She pointed disdainfully. "Those piles of junk there belong to Brian and Mart. I didn’t dare touch their things." "Well, run along and enjoy your ride," Mrs. Belden said. "Supper at seven."
    "I forgot to tell you, Moms," Trixie said, wiping her grimy hands on the seat of her jeans. "We’re all invited to dinner at the Wheelers’. Okay?" Mrs. Belden nodded. "But you must come home first, Trixie, and take a shower and change into at least your school clothes. You really should wear that little wool dress I bought you last spring.
    I’ll let out the hem and press it for you."
    "Oh, Moms," Trixie wailed. "I hate that silly-looking thing. And it’s not a party. Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler won’t be there. Besides, I won’t have time to change. We’re going to ride right up until dinner time. All the horses need exercise like anything."
    Her father’s car turned into the driveway then, and Trixie and her mother, with Bobby between