And Polly knew that David had been won over.
True to his promise, he called early for his old chum, and accompanied her and Patricia to school, showing only the merry, winsome side of his nature, and making Polly proud to own him for a friend.
In the hallway the boys laid hold of him, and carried him off upstairs, where a group of lads, with heads together, whispering and snickering, surrounded one of the desks.
“What are they up to?” queried Patricia, watching them furtively. “Vance Alden is reading something from a piece of paper—hear them laugh!”
“Poetry, probably,” guessed Polly. “He’s the greatest boy for writing poetry. He wrote his composition, one week, all in rhyme.”
At recess the secret was soon made known. A long row of boys, arm in arm, marched across the recitation room, singing this bit of doggerel:—
“Ilga Barron,
The great fanfaron,
Went into the closet one day;
But she was so stout
She couldn’t get out,
And there she had to sta-ay!
And there she had to stay!”
Ilga and several other girls, who were drawing on the blackboard, had stopped when the boys formed in line, to see what they were going to do, and as the singing went on they stood as if dazed; but at the last, fairly realizing the indignity, Ilga sprang forward, crimson with anger.
“I didn’t! I didn’t!” she cried. “You mean, mean things!”
Instantly the line rounded into a circle, with the girl inside, and the boys, bowing low, began:—