Doron Westerby moved on; so did the procession.
"Good-night, Sylvia. Good-night, Trixie. Good-night, Cecily. Good-night, Kathleen—any more news from home, dear?"
Block number two. Joey wondered if Syb's exaggerated groan would be heard by Miss Conyngham; they were so near her now.
Yes, Kathleen had heard from home, and Frankie was better. His temperature had gone down three degrees, thank you, Miss Conyngham.
Kathleen was disposed of. "Good-night, Thelma. Good-night, Winifred. Good-night—oh, it's you, Jocelyn? Settled your things comfortably into the Blue Dormitory?"
"Yes, thank you, Miss Conyngham."
"That's right. Sleep well. Good-night, Jocelyn."
The procession moved on. Joey was out of the Queen's Hall and on the stairs. Up them three steps at a time—the long legs at which Calgarloch stared amazed were certainly of use now. Behind her she heard Syb and Barbara disputing whose turn it was to have first bath. As the turn had to be remembered across the width of the holidays that was a difficult matter to decide. Joey chuckled inwardly; they really needn't worry themselves to remember. She plunged at the door of Blue Dorm and grabbed her things, including pyjamas and dressing-gown. Too late; the other three saw what she meant to do.
"Here, you are last for the bathroom," Syb shouted.