“But you know French!”
“Was that French what you just spoke?”
“Yes.”
“Gee! girls!” Bessie looked about her. “She can talk in French!”
“But you do, too,” Gorgas was fearful of being alone in this.
“Me?” inquired Bessie. “No. I don’t know any speakin’ French. I only know conjugations. Speakin’ French don’t come for years—not till you get to college.”
A heavy voice interrupted. It came from across the lawn.
“Whoo-oo!” it called joyfully and drew nearer. The owner was loping in ungainly bounds. “I’m let out!” Bea Wilcox shouted. Then she glanced at the office corridors and lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper which penetrated almost as far as her normal tones. “I’m loose! Don’t come too near, everybody.” She put her long arms around the nearest girls, one of whom was Gorgas, and hugged them to her. “I’m dangerous, I am! Old Bong-joor said I was—the sweet old Lavender-Box. She said I was to be par-tic-u-lar-ly careful”—old Bong-joor was being imitated now—“not to obflusticate the fiddlesticks of these deah innocent guhls, especially the young lady, Miss, uh, Brownface, who had just enrolled. Where’s Brownface?”
Brownface was being hugged gloriously by Bea’s strong right arm.
“Oh! Oh!” Bea cried as she loosed the other arm and hugged Gorgas to her. “Be careful, Browny. Don’t get too close to me. I’m dangerous!” Back and forth she rocked Gorgas. “I’m ketchin’. I’m the human colery morbus.”