“I tell you, Polly,” sang out Betty from across the hall, “you certainly played this afternoon.”
“Hum!” Polly grumbled, screwing her hair up into a tight knot. “I made a nasty foul. Thank goodness Louise wasn’t there.”
“Aren’t you two slow pokes ready for your baths yet?” demanded Lois, thumping on the door.
“Well, I can’t find my slippers,” Polly complained, rummaging under the bed. “Angela,” she called, “darling Angela, please lend me your slippers.”
“All right, here they come.” And a pair of Chinese slippers flew through the transom.
“Thanks! Oh, I say, I asked for slippers, not stilts,” Polly grumbled. “How do you keep the crazy things on?”
“Ingratitude, thy name is Polly,” began Angela, but Polly was half way down the hall and out of hearing, with Lois and Betty. Lois was saying:
“How did you ever manage to make that foul?” And Polly explained, just as they came to the head of the stairs.
“Why, Connie had the ball and I jumped for it. She tried to pass it to Dot and I thought I could get it by batting it back, like this—”
She leaned forward to show what she meant, completely forgetting the stairs. Angela’s slippers gave a half twist and she plunged headlong down the steps.