“No,” Betty answered quickly.
“Then I’ll just hang on to her till we see what she’s taken,” cried Babe impulsively, and launched herself fearlessly at the stranger, while Roberta screamed; a relay of girls appearing in the door just then rushed to Babe’s assistance, and Betty, not knowing what else to do, turned up all the lamps.
The tall, black-gowned woman was unusually strong, but she was no match for eight stalwart and determined members of 19—.
“I give up. Don’t smother me so,” she cried after a minute in a queer, deep voice. Her hat had been knocked off in the struggle, and the short hair and unmistakably masculine features that were revealed matched the deep voice and the manly strength.
“Why, she’s a—a man,” cried Roberta, and redoubled her shrieks of terror.
The man, still held firmly by his captors, struggled to his feet. “Shut up, can’t you?” he demanded angrily of Roberta. “Call the police if you want to, but don’t wake all the dogs and babies in the neighborhood, and for pity’s sake”—to the others—“don’t squeeze my arms so. It’s not ladylike.”
Almost unconsciously the girls loosened their hold a little, and the prisoner, making one supreme effort, dashed straight at the terrified Roberta, who stood near the door, and in another moment was out in the dark, running like a deer for the factory fence. When he climbed over the top, they could just see that he had left his skirt behind.
“Well, this is a crazy ending for a sedate little class supper,” declared Babe, sorrowfully inspecting a great tear in her lace-trimmed skirt.
“Wasn’t it queer how, when you knew it was a man, you couldn’t hold so tight?” questioned Christy Mason.
“We ought to have chased him,” cried Roberta, to the vast amusement of the rest.