“But papa said he might be rusty-coated, and he said that wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. What is it, Eunice?”
“I don’t know,” answered Eunice, miserably. “Do you suppose it could be like being tarred and feathered like Floyd Ireson?” she added, almost below her breath.
“Eunice, I won’t let them!” cried Cricket, springing up furiously. “Don’t let them dare to touch my brother! I’d scratch them and I’d bite them and—oh, Eunice! papa wouldn’t let them, would he?”
“Perhaps he couldn’t help it. If the President said he had to be rusty-coated, perhaps it would have to be done,” said Eunice, wretchedly, for she had an exalted idea of the authority of the powers that be. Eunice was a born Tory.
“I don’t care if five billion presidents said so,” cried Cricket, defiantly. She was a born Radical, though her sweet temper and wise training had saved her from any desire to revolt. Now all the love and loyalty of her stanch little soul surged up.
“I’d kick him and I’d bite him,” repeated Cricket, “and I’d—don’t you remember that I made those big boys stop teasing Johnnie-goat?”
“Yes, I know,” returned Eunice, who had been very much impressed by that short scene.
“What can Don have done?” queried Cricket, recurring to the starting-point. “Oh, dear! I wish Faculties would be reasonable!” With this modest desire, she pounded viciously on the window-sill.
“I’ll be so ashamed to have the girls know,” said Eunice. “There’s May Chester. Her brother is in the same class.”
“Perhaps he’ll be suspended, too,” said Cricket, hopefully. Misery loves company. “But—suspended, Eunice,” with a fresh wave of dejection. “And I’m so afraid it will hurt.”