“Miss Hargrew, come here!” snapped the teacher, in no mood for frivolity.
Bobby approached slowly. She held her hands behind her back like a naughty child.
“Let me see what is in your hand, Miss!” commanded the teacher
Bobby brought forth her right hand—empty.
“Your other hand, Miss!”
Back snapped the culprit’s right hand and then her left hand appeared—likewise empty.
“Miss Hargrew! I demand that you give me what you are hiding in your hand, at once!” cried Miss Carrington.
Slowly, and with drooping mien, the culprit brought forth both hands. In the fingers of one still smoked the brown object the teacher had spied.
“A vile cigarette!” she gasped.
“No, ma’am,” replied Bobby, quite bravely. “Only a piece of Chinese punk-stick left over from last year’s Fourth of July celebration. I wouldn’t smoke a cigarette, Miss Carrington. I don’t think they’re nice—do you?”