"Page, little Page, are you dead?" were the first words that I heard, and Mr. Tucker's face the first one I saw.
"Dead? I should say not! I'm not even hurt. Let me get up," and I caught hold of his ready hand and struggled to my feet.
"She's not hurt! She's all right!" he called to the anxious Tweedles who had been pushed back by the curious crowd, and he wiped the ever-ready tears from his eyes. Then the boys from Hill-Top gave me a yell, our especial yell that we sophomores used at moments of supreme victory:
"Ice cream—soda water—ginger ale, pop!
Sophomores! Sophomores! Always on top!"
"I wish I had been," I said ruefully; and there was a general laugh.
A whistle from Gresham warned the girls that it was time to go back to the school, and in a short time the Hill-Top boys had to leave, all but Harvie and Shorty and the tutor, Mr. Anderson.
We piled more brush on the fire that had been started to warm toes by, and in a little while we had a blaze that, as dusk came on, lighted up the whole lake and made up for the lack of a moon.
I never saw such a wonderful lunch as Mr. Tucker had brought. There were sandwiches of all kinds; cream cheese and pimento, chicken, ham, tongue and lettuce. There was a great jar of chicken salad, beaten biscuit, cheese straws, olives, pickles and salted almonds, and a chocolate cake even larger than Dum's so-called best hat that Mr. Tucker had sent for the Thanksgiving spread.
"Bleat, my little goat, bleat,
Cover the table with something to eat," sang Dum. "Zebedee, you seem to me to be working magic. I don't see how all those things could have been packed in that basket."