“Give—me—my—ticket.”
The seniors rustled past. To Berta their laughter sounded far away. “Oh, girls, we’ll have to hurry! Hear that bell jangle.”
“The conductor does it on purpose to see us run. We have three minutes yet. Those two freshmen by the bulletin-board are going.”
“It is not honest,” said Robbie Belle.
Fragments of gay chatter floated back to them. “Caruso and Sembrich in Lucia di Lammermoor! Fancy! It is the most wonderful combination of extraordinary talent—genius. I shall certainly go if I have to stand up every minute of the three hours.”
“It is simply wicked to miss such an opportunity.”
“Important part of our education, isn’t it? I only wish my thesis were on the ‘Development of the Drama.’ I should employ the laboratory method most assuredly.”
“The critics say that such a chance as this does not occur more than once in a century.”
“It is not honest,” said Robbie Belle, back in the shadowy corridor before the bulletin-board.
“Will you give me my ticket?”