CHAPTER XXVI
“LOVE (AND SCHOOLGIRLS) LAUGH AT LOCKSMITHS”
“Here, I’m going to take command of affairs, since no one else seems inclined to,” cried Marie. “May, you are the strongest girl here; just give me a shoulder, will you?”
“What shall I do?”
“Stand close to the wall underneath the window, and let me get on your shoulder; it may hurt a bit, but we can’t stay stived up in here all night. Lend a hand, Ruth, and boost me up.”
A step-ladder of knees and arms was formed, and up scrambled Marie as nimbly as a squirrel. Then another obstacle confronted her. The window had probably never been opened since it was built, and, having never been called upon to do its share in the economy of that household, was disinclined to begin now. Marie’s slender fingers were dented and pinched in vain; that window remained obdurate.
“For mercy sake come down and give the old thing up! My shoulder is crushed flat,” said May.
“Wait just one second longer, and I’ll have it; see if I don’t. Ruth, hand me that stair-brush, please.”
Ruth gave her the brush, and, saying to May: “Now, brace yourself for a mighty push,” she used the handle as a lever, gave a vigorous jerk, when away went bolt, window, Marie and all. Down she came with a thud, but, luckily, on a pile of sweeping cloths, which saved her from harm.
Scrabbling up, she cried: “Never mind, I’m not hurt a bit; now boost me up again, and let me see what is outside.”