Thus it came about that one April morning the following year Pip-Emma Binns sat at her desk by the classroom window and wrote an English composition called "Trees." Or rather she was not writing. She was chewing bits out of a wooden pen-holder and balefully regarding the back of Vittoria Emanuella Perozzi, the class' champion essayist. Vittoria used words which Miss Perkins called metaphors and similes and which Pip-Emma called baloney. If a person looked white, why not just say so? Why bring in sheets? However, Miss Perkins thought a lot of that sort of thing, and so, no doubt, would the dames who were giving a prize of two months' vacation in some swell kids' camp for the best description of trees.
What did a tree look like? In Pip-Emma's opinion it looked like a tree. But she knew that wouldn't get her anywhere—certainly not to Camp Happy Warriors, where Pop and Ma were hell-bent on her going. She pulled her dark brows together. She wiped an inky hand over her black hair drawn back into a short defiant pigtail. Then inspiration struck her, too. Very carefully she wrote two sentences. "I can't describe trees. I haven't seen any." And signed it Emma Binns.
It was like a metaphor. It wasn't true. It was baloney. But to Mrs. VanSittart and her committee it was just too heart-rending. No trees. Poor little Emma Binns! As for Vittoria Emanuella Perozzi, she had evidently seen so many trees so often and so beautifully that, in the committee's opinion, there was no urgent need for her to see any more of them.
* * * * *
The Happy Warriors were gathered with their counselors and under their respective banners in Grand Central Terminal, and Clara VanSittart inspected the Penguins like a colonel inspecting a regiment before battle. She gave last orders. After all, the Social Conscience had been her idea, and it had to go over with a bang so that even the Pelicans would be impressed.
"Every Penguin," she said, "must remember to be kind. The poor kid won't be able to do the things we do, and I guess she'll do a lot we don't. But you're not to look s'perior or call her down so as to hurt her feelings. We've got to remember we'd be like her if we didn't belong to the Privileged Classes." It was a prepared speech and had more than a suggestion of Mrs. VanSittart's firm handling of committees. "And don't laugh at her mother," Clara concluded. "She's sure to be pretty awful."
As it happened, Mrs. Binns, who went out as daily help, had no time to go running round after a lot of queer-sounding birds. She'd given Pip-Emma's new middy costume a final admonitory twitch. "And mind you behave like a lady," she'd said, swallowing her tears, "or I'll sock you."
Mr. Binns, who might have been heavyweight champion of the world if he hadn't busted his hand early in life on the skull of a certain Black Bruiser, drove Emma to the station in the cab of his truck. "Keep yer chin covered, Pip," he said, grinning, "and don't pull your punches."
Pip-Emma, staggering through the unfamiliar immensities of Grand Central under the weight of her suitcase, felt sickish. She hated leaving Pop and Ma. She loathed being a Penguin. She'd seen a penguin once at the zoo, and she'd seen no sense in it. She despised her costume. It would take weeks to live down the jeers and cheers which had greeted and pursued it to the end of 45th Street on Eighth. She hated leaving the Gang. It was her Gang. She ruled it with despotic efficiency. In fact, when she and Clara VanSittart, introduced by a worried Prissy Adams, shook hands, two born chairmen unconsciously locked horns.
Clara said, "How d'you do?"