“Harry Peters!”
“Aw, Harry!” derided you all. Assisted by obliging hands, Harry stumbled through the crack, and the doors met behind him. You in the outer room listened breathlessly. An instant—and then came a tremendous burst of clapping and laughter, and Harry, blushing and flustrated, plunged back into your midst.
“Aw, Harry! Got clapped out! Aw, Harry!”
“I did it on purpose!” averred Harry, stoutly. “I guess I knew. I don’t want any girl kissin’ me, you bet!”
“Henry Schmidt!” summoned Mrs. Daner.
Hen, being notoriously afraid of girls, must have blindly plumped down into the very first chair available, for scarcely had he entered ere out he fled, headlong, in dire confusion, before a volley of gay voices and staccato palms.
“Johnny Walker!”
That was you. You had been hoping, and now you had arrived. Beset by the usual ridicule—Harry and Hen the leaders in it—reluctantly, after all, you left the safe society of your fellows, and slipping through the fateful crack uncertainly looked about you.
The atmosphere was distinctly feminine. Fourteen little girls stood each behind an empty chair, in almost a circle, and eyed you roguishly. Nobody spoke. You felt as graceful as a hippopotamus and twice as large.
Your wandering glance fell upon Mary Webster. Mary nodded invitingly. And upon Lucy Rogers. Lucy stared at you with intense soberness.