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keep from laughing herself. “Gleeps!” she said. “I forgot all about the button. I looked for it on Sunday, honest!”
    “Well, it’s not in here,” Mart said, holding out the cashbox. “Fifty cents, please.”
    Suddenly Trixie’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Mr. Copresident,” she announced, “I would like to point out another member of the club who is also in violation of the punk—punkta—whatever that rule is. Look closely, and you’ll see a spot of catsup on the jacket of the secretary-treasurer.”
    “Where?” Mart yelled, jumping to his feet. “Show me!”
    “Right there, Mart,” Honey said, pointing to a dark red spot on the front of the bright red jacket.
    “Yikes!” Mart looked at the spot. “How did that get there?”
    “Well, it didn’t come from here,” Trixie said, dropping her fine into the box and holding it out to her brother. “Pay up, Mart,” she ordered.
    “Nolo contendere,” Mart acknowledged wryly as he dug in his pocket for a dime and dropped it in the box.
    Jim rapped for order. “We may have another club project to contend with now,” he said, looking over the agenda. “Trixie told me about it, and she’ll explain it now.”
    Trixie was serious at once. “When Dad told me about Mr. Johnson needing a helper, he also said something about Hoppy. Mr. Johnson says that Hoppy needs to be replated with new copper. Otherwise, the weather vane may be damaged by the weather this winter. The town council has given Mr. Johnson money to repair the roof, but there isn’t enough money to have Hoppy recoppered, too. That means Hoppy may have to be taken down from his perch—permanently.”
    “No more good luck,” Mart teased, but his tone held regret.
    “Town Hall just won’t be the same without Hoppy on top,” Di said.
    “Di’s right,” Trixie agreed. “I think that a worthy project for the Bob-Whites would be to help raise the money to have Hoppy recoppered.”
    “That’s a good idea,” Dan said quickly. The others nodded.
    Di looked worried. “But what can we do?” she asked. “We’ve already given a winter carnival and had an antique sale. How eke can we raise the money?”
    “How about a walk-a-thon?” Trixie suggested. “We’ve never tried that before.”
    Brian was interested at once. “I like that idea,” he said. “We could get a lot of people from school to volunteer as walkers, and set up a course through town with special checkpoints at various places along the way—”
    “Good,” Trixie said. “But first we have to find some sponsors—businesses, or just people who are interested—to pledge a certain amount of money for every mile someone walks. And we need some good publicity before we begin.”
    “I have an ideal” Honey exclaimed. “My father is a good friend of Mr. Perkins, who owns WSTH. Maybe he’d announce it on his radio station for us.”
    “Great!” Trixie said. “Your dad can help us solve that problem.”
    The Bob-Whites spent the rest of the meeting making further plans for the walk-a-thon.
    On the way back to Crabapple Farm, Trixie sighed. “I wish I could get good ideas for my social studies report as easily as I do for club projects,” she said.
    “I thought you finished that report,” Brian said. “It’s almost done now,” Trixie admitted. “I have to make a couple more drawings of coins, that’s all. Honey and I are going to stay after school for a while tomorrow. We’ll come home in a cab.”

    After social studies class the following afternoon, Trixie and Honey talked with some classmates in the hall and asked for their help with the walk-a-thon. When the hall had emptied, they returned to the classroom to work on their reports.
    “I’ll be here for a while,” Miss Lawler said. “Ask if you need help.” She went to work on a stack of test papers.
    Pulling chairs close to the case, the girls examined the ancient coins once more. Honey quickly located an old Roman coin she needed and began sketching,