Where Hinpoha’s thoughts were the next day in school nobody knew, but they were certainly not on her lessons. She failed signally in every class.
“And what were the initials of the great poet, Longfellow?” cooed Miss Snively, in her honeydrip voice.
The word “initials” penetrated Hinpoha’s wandering mind. “D. K.,” she murmured dreamily.
“Indeed?” purred Miss Snively. “Can it be that I have been misinformed?” But today sarcasm was lost on Hinpoha.
After school was out a select group, half of which seemed to be hanging back and being coaxed on by the other half, walked ten blocks to an unfamiliar car line and transferred to a cross-town line. There was a much more direct route to their destination, but that laid them open to the risk of meeting friends and relatives who might casually inquire whither they were bound. Just wherein lay the crime in what they were doing, no one could have told, nor why it should be kept such a dark secret, but singly and collectively they would have died rather than reveal the nature of the latest epidemic.
By devious ways they reached the end of their journey and stood irresolute on the sidewalk before a house which bore a plate on the door announcing that that same roof sheltered the object of their desire.
“Shall we all go in together?” whispered Gladys. There was no need of whispering, for no one was within earshot, but with one accord they lowered their voices. They went up the steps and held another consultation. “You ring the bell,” said Gladys.
“No, you ring it,” said Hinpoha. Thus encouraged, Hinpoha pushed the button, the door swung inward and they passed through. An hour later they stood on the corner again, waiting for the car to take them home.
“Did she say anything about—about——” inquired Gladys.
Hinpoha clapped her hand over her mouth and made inarticulate sounds beneath it, but her eyes were sparkling, as they never sparkled before.