"Gretta Engel, you mean, mean, dreadful girl!" she cried vehemently. "I thought, of course, you were a lunatic, and I think so now more than ever!"
Gretta caught her breath, half choked between laughter and her shaking, and the school applauded, highly appreciating their teacher's energy, as well as her being fooled. "To think that you hadn't the least idea! You hadn't any idea, had you?" gasped Gretta.
Hattie Franz gave limp Gretta a few parting shakes, herself weak from laughter. "How could I have an idea?" she demanded. "My, but I was frightened! I'll pay you back for this trick, Gretta, if I have to wait till we are ninety-nine years old! How shall I ever get the school dismissed and these children in order?" she sighed.
Gretta turned to the pupils. "Young ladies and gentlemen," she began, and the shouting ceased; the children waited to see what more fun was coming. "You will please sing 'Marching Through Georgia,' and then all march yourselves home. Who locks up, Hattie?"
"Aaron Shale; he keeps the key and makes the fire," said Hattie.
"Then you let Aaron stay here, and slip away with us," said Gretta. "He'll close up." But she reckoned without her host—the host of children. The older ones stampeded after the teacher and her visitors, and formed into line, ready to escort them through the village. Up the road Gretta and Happie spied Bob and Laura, with Polly and Penny, waiting to see them pass.
The last thing that the girls wanted was to be turned into a sort of Antique and Horrible parade, like the children who masquerade in New York on Thanksgiving day. There was but one thing to be done, and that was to run for it, up the backwoods road, and across the fields. Hastily bidding Hattie good night, Gretta and Happie gathered their fantastic garb about them and fled with all their might. The last vestige of that afternoon's frolic to be seen was two veiled ladies in marvelous costume, fleeing at top speed towards the old grist mill.