She didn’t have a chance to look at them till she got home at noon, and then, alas, none of the mottoes seemed suitable. She couldn’t make up her mind to give him “You’re my girl,” or “I love you,” or “Sweetheart mine,” which appeared oftenest in flaming red letters on their tombstone surfaces.
She decided to try again. That night she took another nickel out of her bank and bought more hearts the following morning. This time she found two she thought might do. She wavered quite a while between “Be my friend,” and “I like you,” at length deciding on the latter.
She wrapped it up carefully in a bit of white paper, then waiting her opportunity took the rest of the bag of hearts and dumped them in the grate. She was sick of them. Her mother coming in soon after wondered what made such an odor of burned sugar.
But the act of putting the fateful heart on Johnny’s desk wasn’t as simple as she had fancied beforehand. If Miss Brown wasn’t looking, Grace Dart was. It seemed to her that Grace didn’t study a single bit that whole afternoon. Twice when the coast was clear, she actually turned around with the heart in her hand, but some way her courage failed her. One look into Johnny’s impish eyes paralyzed her hand. Finally she decided to put it on his desk when he went to the board. She would wait till he was almost back to his seat so nobody could get it, and, then lay it down real quick.
The deed was done and Chicken Little turned back to bury her burning face in her Geography and await results. She listened to the rustling of paper as Johnny unwrapped the heart. There was a long silence. She wondered if he would eat it. But Johnny evidently didn’t eat it. She couldn’t detect the tiniest crunch. She began to grow more and more uncomfortable. Suppose he should show it to some of the other children—or to teacher.
But Johnny wasn’t thinking of doing anything of the kind. He was furtively contemplating the tip of a very red ear and a strip of cheek, which were about all he could see of Chicken Little’s face. Johnny had secretly admired Chicken Little ever since she had got even with him so artistically. He was considerably overcome by this unlooked-for mark of her favor. But he couldn’t think off-hand of any suitable way of returning the courtesy.
He went through his pockets thoughtfully. Their contents were not inspiring—five marbles, a piece of string, two broken slate pencils and a red bandanna handkerchief slightly soiled. He cherished this handkerchief specially because he had seen so many teamsters and jockeys—his special admiration—carrying them. Further, he was the only boy in school who had one.
He smoothed the handkerchief out carefully and looked at it. Finally he folded it up into the smallest wad possible, tied it with the bit of string, and reached under the desk touched Jane’s arm. He pressed it into her hand furtively when she looked around.
“’Tain’t much,” he said apologetically, “but maybe it’ll do for your doll.”
Chicken Little walked on air going home from school that night. She called Grace Dart clear across the street to come over and see. Grace came and saw and bowed down. There was no need to ask who had given Chicken Little the trophy. Only Johnny Carter possessed such a one—and the handkerchief was undeniably big and masculine. But Jane’s troubles were not over yet. Grace had a good memory.