Just then the rest of the party returned from their picnic. They trooped in laughing, chattering and shouting, making such a noise that it was several minutes before the Easter Chicken could even make himself heard, though he did his best, running from one to another, flapping his wings and chirping piteously.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gladys at last. “What’s all this fuss? You should have been in bed hours ago!”
“Tubby’s gone! Tubby’s gone!” the Easter Chicken cried. And he poured out a story in which Tubby, Murrum and the Money-Pig were so mixed up that Gladys could make out nothing at all.
“Come here!” she called to the others. “What’s he fussing about, do you suppose? He’s got some silly idea in his head but I can’t understand a word of it!”
“It’s Tubby!” he sobbed.
“Well, what about Tubby?”’ asked Virginia May tartly, for she had been interrupted in a conversation with Harlequin, and Harlequin’s conversations were rare.
“Tubby has gone!” said the Easter Chicken.
“Is that all? Well, she’s gone to Tubbyland, I suppose! She’s done it dozens of times before,” said Gladys. “Nothing to get so excited about.”
For it had long been Tubby’s habit, especially when she felt herself slighted, to retire into hiding in some spot known only to herself, and from which she would reappear later, telling every one, with a most superior air, that she
