“Some people are too lazy to pull their own sleds uphill,” returned Bess.
Elizabeth, in the cloakroom, heard it all. She flounced out, her cheeks blazing and her eyes snapping. “You mean, deceitful, jealous things!” she cried. “I heard every word you said, and I don’t want to speak to you. I am going to ask Miss Jewett to let me change my seat, Betsy Tyson, and as for you, Bess Ferguson—no wonder the boys don’t want to drag a great fat thing like you uphill. I’ll never, never be friends with you again, so there!” She flounced out the door and down the path before the schoolhouse, pounding her feet down very hard and trying to keep back the smarting tears.
Betsy and Bess looked at one another dismayed. “Now we’ve done it,” said Betsy. “You needn’t have called her lazy, Bess. You know she isn’t.”
“That wasn’t half as bad as what you said,” returned Bess, aggrieved.
“Well, I didn’t really mean it,” returned Betsy. “I didn’t know she was in there, did you?”
“Indeed I didn’t. I wouldn’t have had her hear for the world.”
“I don’t suppose she will ever forgive us.”
“I am not at all sure that I want to forgive her. I think what she said was a great deal worse than what we did.”
“You are fat, you know,” replied Betsy, ready to be a little spiteful.
“I’d rather be nice and plump than be a little skinny thing like you,” returned Bess.