The fair wide street before them, the door shut behind them, they drew deep breaths of relief, though each avoided the others’ eyes.
“Some girls wouldn’t mind going right up and 51 killing it,” said Polly, “but I simply could not.”
“Nor I,” said Catherine firmly. “I could go to battle or the stake like Joan of Arc, but I draw the line at mice.”
“What’s the matter? What are you all out here for? I thought you came to clean.”
It was Dorcas, of course. The girls hung their heads with shame, and Bertha, who had defied her so boldly when last they met, answered with meekness.
“We did. But there’s a mouse.”
Dorcas looked them all over with an expression of deep scorn.
“Give me the key,” she said, and it was given to her.
Then the fearful ones flattened their faces against the unwashed window-pane to see what would happen. The little gray creature placidly nibbled a tidbit in a corner. Dorcas approached him. He lifted his head and regarded her. She faltered a little and glanced behind her. She even felt hastily of her skirts. The respect in the watching faces lightened a little. Every woman is born knowing how mice delight to hide in skirts.
After a moment Dorcas opened the door and came out, passed the group of watchers without a word and crossed the street to Henderson’s. Coming back a minute later with a trap, she re-entered the room, set the trap and waited. So did the 52 others, breathless, clinging to each other. Bert and Dot, driving up on their ten-cent express, saw that something unusual was going on, and drove quietly around into the alley. Peeping in at the back window, they took in the situation quickly: Dorcas on one side of the room, the little gray mouse on the other, the trap between. The silence lasted for several seconds. Then came a sharp crack! And Dorcas, throwing her arm across her eyes, ran out of the room with a shriek and fell upon Agnes, who was nearest.