No one came. The lawn and the garden were very still. She heard a pear fall ripely from a tree. A car drove by on the road. Moments passed. She felt her cheeks begin to burn. She was as angry as if she had known that people stood behind the door, deliberately letting her knock and knock, unanswered, because her dress was faded and scant. She grabbed that knocker, and she beat such a tattoo on the old door as surely it had seldom known in its venerable life.
Rat-tat-tat banged the knocker, with horrid brazen clangor, until Jacqueline had to stop for breath. She was now more white than red. Of course they must be there—the maids, at least. Off their job, because Aunt Eunice had gone out. She’d show ’em.
Rat-tat-tat went the knocker, and then Jacqueline’s feet, in the scuffed sneakers, were kicking at the door, and Jacqueline’s hands were thumping futilely upon the smooth white panels.
“Let me in!” cried Jacqueline, afraid, she hardly knew of what. “Let me in—in—IN!”
She stopped suddenly. She had heard footsteps on the walk below the porch. She turned, and there stood a stout, solemn little girl, with tow-colored hair, in a neat white frock and sandals.
“That won’t do a bit of good,” said the little girl.
“Smarty!” said Jacqueline. “How do you know?”
“Smarty yourself,” answered the little girl. “I know ’cause I live next door. I’m Eleanor Trowbridge, and Jacqueline told me to come here and play in her summer house while they’re gone.”
“Gone?” Jacqueline echoed foolishly.
“Sure,” said Eleanor. “Don’t you suppose they’d come out and tell you to stop banging that knocker, if they were here? They all went off yesterday, and Jacqueline took Mildred with her. They’ve gone way off to the seashore, and they won’t be back till it’s time for school again.”