Bea caught the idea impulsively. “Oh, Sara!” she exclaimed, “you’re only nervous. You’ve often waked up and screamed a little ever since that night on the boat. It’s nothing. Crackie! but you frightened us at first!”
Sara lifted a white face. “This was different,” she said; “this was something alive. Hark!”
They leaned forward, listening. Yes, there was a footstep outside, muffled, stealthy. A board creaked. Something was breathing.
Gertrude and Berta looked at each other in quick challenge for mutual courage. All the other rooms at that end of the building were vacant; the long dark corridor stretched out its empty tunnel between them and available help. What could four girls do?
“We can scream,” said Bea.
“Lock the door—and the inner window—quick!” Gertrude flew to one, Berta to the other. “Sara, take this Indian club. Now if it really is—anything, scream. But don’t run. Don’t scatter. Scream—scream all together. Ah!”
The footsteps were coming down the alleyway toward the door. Bea filled her lungs, and opened her mouth in valiant preparation.
“Wee-wee-wee, bow-wow!” Two little paws scratched at the door.
Bea’s breath issued in a feeble squeak, as she dropped neatly down upon the floor and buried her face in her hands.
Berta swooped upon her. “The puppy!”