“But our tickets, and the conductor, and all that?” inquired Nita Brant, with ambiguous precision.
“We will all make over a total assignment to you—you may stay with the ship, Nita, but we run!”
It was funny to see how those girls did scamper from the last car of that train. The dainty travelling bags, gifts of “friends on departing,” were now all tangled up in the scant skirts, that did double service of being a part of wearing apparel—small part—and also answering for a carryall of the old time conception. It was the quickest way, and that was what counted. Jean Faval did drop her gold purse just as she was alighting (she did not “get off”) but Tavia was so anxious that all should escape that she crawled under the oily wheels and dragged out the golden trinket. The new girl thanked her, and, for the time, an armistice was established.
“Are we all here?” called Dorothy, who was assisting Edna because of the lame arm.
“All but King, and he is cleaning out the other cars,” replied Tavia. “There, look out, Dick! Land sakes alive! We won’t have thread and needles enough in the tower to sew our tears, if this keeps up. Dick, you have ruined your flounce on that brake.”
Molly Richards (otherwise Dick) looked hopelessly at the torn needlework skirt. “Oh, well,” she said, making the ground, “I never liked that anyway. The pattern was true-lover’s-knot, and I’m just glad I——”
“Broke the knot,” put in Dorothy. “Tavia, wherever are you leading us to? This must be a turf bog!”
“Leadin’ on to vict’ry,” replied the girl who was almost running ahead. “I have been over this bog before.”
“But not at this season, when the water comes in,” cautioned Dorothy. “However, girls, I am willing to take the same risk that you all take—sink or swim,” and she ran along after Tavia, while the others followed, like American soldiers taking their initial trip through a rice field.
Every step was uncertain—every foot was put in the bog with a shudder or groan, and pulled out with a shout.