They approached quite near to the group of elms before either of them observed the unfortunate Phyllis.
“Why!” cried Gladys suddenly to her companion. “There’s somebody in the stocks!”
She went forward hastily, followed at a slower pace by the Italian. Poor Phyllis, her bundle by her side, and her cheeks tear-stained, presented a woeful enough appearance. Her first inclination was to hide her face in her hands; but making a brave effort, she turned her head towards the new-comers with a gasping little laugh.
“I put my foot in here for a joke,” she stammered, “and it got caught. Please let me out, Miss Romer.”
Gladys came quite near and laid her gloved hand upon the wooden bar.
“It just lifts up, Miss,” pleaded Phyllis, with tears in her voice. “It isn’t at all heavy.”
Gladys stared at her with a growing sense of interest. The girl’s embarrassment under her scrutiny awoke her Romer malice.
“I really don’t know that I want to let you out in such a hurry,” she said. “If it’s a game you are playing, it would be a pity to spoil it. Who put you in? You must tell me that, before I set you free! You couldn’t have done it yourself.”
By this time Lacrima had arrived on the scene.
The shame-faced Phyllis turned to her. “Please, Miss Traffio, please, lift that thing up! It’s quite easy to move.”