"Glad to see you, but you'll get into a jinky little row if the Acid Drop catches you!"
"Right oh, chucky! The Acid Drop is at this moment watching the team for all she's worth. She's awfully keen on hockey."
"I know. And so am I," said Marjorie aggrievedly. "It's the limit to miss this match."
"You're not going to miss it altogether. I've come to help you. Here, give me a pen, and I'll copy some of the stuff out for you. Our writing's so alike no one will guess—and you'll get out at half-time."
"You mascot! But you're missing the match yourself!"
"I don't care twopence. I'm not keen on hockey like you are. Give me a pen, I tell you!"
"But how are we to manage?" objected Marjorie. "If we do alternate pages we shan't each know where to begin, and we can't leave spaces, or the Acid Drop would twig."
"Marjorie Anderson, I always thought you'd more brains than I have, but you're not clever to-day! You must write small, so as to get each line of print exactly into a line of exercise paper. There are twenty blue lines on each sheet—very well then, you copy the first twenty of old Bacon, and I'll copy the second twenty, and there we are, alternate pages, as neat as you please!"
"Dona, you've a touch of genius about you!" purred Marjorie.
The plan answered admirably. By writing small, it was quite possible to bring each line of print into correspondence with the manuscript. There were a hundred and twenty lines altogether in the essay, which worked out at six pages of exercise paper. Each counted out her own portion, then scribbled away as fast as was consistent with keeping the size of her caligraphy within due bounds. Thirty-five minutes' hard work brought them to the last word. Marjorie breathed a sigh of rapture, fastened the pages together with a clip, and took them downstairs to Miss Norton's study.