Friday afternoon the bulletin board had flaunted a poster of a big smiling girl, holding out her arms in welcome to a shy little lass with her finger in her mouth. Mary Williams had painted it, and it was truly a work of art. On it were the words:
WELCOME DANCE TO THE NEW GIRLS
SATURDAY, AT 8 P. M., IN ASSEMBLY HALL
As Polly sat up in bed and stuffed her fingers in her ears—she hadn’t grown accustomed to the rising bell yet—she suddenly thought what day it was.
Bouncing out of bed, she slipped into a dressing gown, dashed through the corridor down a
flight of stairs to a long room lined on either side with doors leading into tiled bathrooms with sunken porcelain tubs. They had been built only two years, and so magnificent were they after the old ones, that the girls had christened them The Roman Baths and the corridor, Roman Alley.
As Polly took the last two steps at a jump, she ran bang into Betty, the freckled face.
“Whither awa’ in such mad haste, and what have I ever done to you that you should want to see my poor nose any flatter?” asked Betty, carefully pretending to straighten her nose.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Betty; did I hurt you?” answered Polly. “I was in such a hurry to get a tub. Some one always beats me, and I’ve been late to breakfast twice.”
“Why not try my stunt and get up ten minutes before the bell? But you’re all right this morning,” and Betty pointed to the row of open doors. “Turn on the water and then we can talk.”
In a minute they were both sitting huddled up on the bottom step, while the water was splashing into their tubs.