“Where’s the next innocent?” demanded one girl, hoarsely.
“Number Eighteen, on this corridor,” was the reply. “That girl from Wauhegan.”
“Wau—what-again?” sputtered Laura Polk.
“There, there, Polk!” admonished the masked leader. “Never mind your bad puns. Here we are. Attention!”
The procession halted. The leader banged the door three times as she had at Number Seven, with the handle of the broom.
“Come in! don’t stop to knock,” called somebody inside.
“There! that’s the way to treat us,” grunted Laura, as the door swung inward.
“Sh!” the girls all became silent.
There was a light in the room and a tall, thin girl, with rather homely features but a beautiful set of teeth, scrambled up from the floor where she had been sitting cross-legged, arranging her lower bureau drawer.
“Gracious—goodness—Agnes!” she gasped, when she saw the head of the procession.