It was a good game. Polly was playing jumping center against Mary Reed, a big heavy girl, slow in her movements, but hard to budge. Connie was playing second center with Polly, and as she was no earthly help, Polly had to bounce the ball to the line and throw it to Betty, who was playing forward. Poor Betty was breaking her record for fouls.
Lois, guarding at the other end, was playing like a little fury. She had to work, for Harriet Ames was so long and lanky that she managed to pick the ball out of the air above her head, unless frantic efforts were used to stop her.
Every one was so busy with the game that the arrival of Louise Preston and two or three members of the big team passed unnoticed. They had slipped in after the game had commenced and were watching each play very carefully.
After the game the three girls met, as usual, in Roman Alley, as the water was running for their cold tubs.
“Hum, I don’t call that much of a score—fourteen to four.” And Polly sank down on the steps in disgust.
“That’s because you were not trying to guard a giraffe with four arms,” answered Lois, dropping down beside her.
Betty folded her arms in solemn dignity and stood looking at the two girls on the steps.
“Is it possible, my children,” she began, in a voice ridiculously like the school chaplain’s, “I repeat, is it possible that you have failed to grasp the full significance of this day’s work? Where were your eyes, and have you lost the sense necessary for putting two and two together?”
Polly and Lois looked at her with puzzled expressions.
“Elucidate, Elizabeth, if you please,” called a voice from the top of the stairs, accompanied by