‘We’ll all keep on the look-out,’ they said to one another; ‘and the first who sees an opportunity of helping the poor must promise to share it with the other two.’
Saturday afternoon came round in another day or two, and on Saturday afternoon the girls could do pretty much as they liked, as soon as the hockey practice was over. It was one of those late wintry days in March which bring with them a promise of spring to come: there was a sharpness in the air, now that the sun was nearing the west, that proclaimed it still to be winter, while a faint earthiness of smell, a tumult of birds’ voices in the hedge, and an intense blueness above, all told of the warmer season in store. The triumvirate, as Margaret Hulme had nicknamed Jean and her two inseparable companions, were much too fond of the open air to go indoors before they were obliged; so, while most of their school-fellows voted for the fire and a story-book, they wandered off down the nine-acre field, their arms linked affectionately together. Their conversation was very engrossing, for it turned on the gymnastic competition that was going to be held at the end of the term, for which the Canon had just offered a prize of six morocco-bound books, to be chosen by the successful competitor herself.
‘That’s where this hole is such a nice hole for a school,’ said Jean. ‘At the other school I went to, they never asked you what books you’d like; and they always gave you poetry.’
‘Some poetry is all right. I think I like poetry when it’s got a story in it, and the rhymes are not too far away from one another, and the lines jog along without your having to bother about them,’ remarked Babs.
‘Oh, that kind isn’t bad,’ admitted Jean. ‘I didn’t mean Macaulay and Longfellow and all the real poets. But the stuff they gave you at my school was horribly dull, and it never had any sort of story in it, and the lines didn’t seem to belong to one another at all; and there was generally a thing called a glossary at the end, which only showed that it wasn’t fit for any one to read.’
‘I know that kind of poetry; we have lots of it at home,’ put in Angela. ‘There’s a chap called Browning who’s rather like that. Have you ever read any Browning, you two?’
‘No,’ said Jean, flatly. ‘Don’t believe you have either. My father says Browning didn’t understand himself, and I’m sure you don’t know more than Browning. So there!’
‘Never mind about the poetry,’ interposed Barbara. ‘I want to hear about the gym prize. Who do you think is going to get it, Jean?’
‘Well, Margaret is awfully good, of course, but we shall know better after the trial on Monday afternoon,’ said Jean, cautiously.
‘What trial?’ asked Barbara.