But, finally, Phil found his voice. “No, no!” he shrieked; “I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I’ll be good!”
His father turned and looked at him.
“Stop crying,” said he.
Phil sobbed and capered about a moment longer, but at last his sobs died away and he stood still.
His father eyed him a moment longer. Then he shut his pen-knife with a snap and dropped the switch in the grass.
At this welcome sight Phil vanished into the house, and his father slowly followed him.
“What a horrid day,” thought Susan. “Poor Philly! But I won’t tell I saw. I mean I won’t tell any one but Grandmother and Grandfather and Flip.”
Armed with her cookies, Susan traveled back to the schoolhouse. On the little stone walk she stopped and stared. The schoolhouse steps were bare!
Where was the squash baby? Surely she hadn’t walked away by herself. Neither had she rolled off, toppled over by her own weight, for Susan searched carefully in the grass about the steps. She shook the schoolhouse door. It was firmly locked. She peeped in the window. The same familiar scene met her eye: rows of old-fashioned benches, rusty stove, dingy maps upon the wall, tin dipper left upon the window-sill.
To Susan’s relief she saw Grandfather’s business friend drive away, and she hurried across the road to tell of the mysterious disappearance.