"We'll make her let us alone."
"I'm a good shot."
A foe worthy of these many fierce opponents should have been tall and strong and well-armed, but the approaching figure was that of a girl. Her name was Mary Slessor; she was fourteen years old and short for her age. She had not had a chance to grow to her full height because she got up at five o'clock in the morning, helped her mother until she went to the factory at six, worked until six in the evening, and then helped her mother until a late bedtime. When she had a spare moment she read, even propping her book up on her loom as the great missionary Livingstone had done when he was a factory boy.
The shouts of the boys and girls grew louder.
"Hi, Mary Slessor!"
"Hit her!"
"You let us alone, or we'll do for you!"
The little figure came straight on.
"We're not going to come to your meetings!" shouted a loud voice.
"We don't care for your meetings!" yelled another.