Up the chicken steps the young folks trooped, Lewis in front with the flash light, Miss Somerville still sleeping the sleep of the virtuous and just. Poor Susan was lying on her shelf-like bed, her head covered up, having emerged only for yelling purposes and then quickly covering herself again. Her great feet were sticking out at the bottom and on them were perched three large hornets, stinging at their ease. A kerosene lamp, turned down too low and smelling at an unseemly rate, was on the box that served as a table. The windows were tightly closed because of her weak lungs and the air could almost have been cut with its combination of odors, cheap-scented soap, musk and just plain Susan.
“Susan, Susan! What is the matter?” demanded Douglas.
“Oh, little Mistis! That English hant has got me by the toe. I was expecting him after what that there po’ white boy done tol’ me, but I thought maybe he would be held off by Miss Lizzie Somerville. Hants ain’t likely to worry the quality.”
“Nonsense, Susan, nothing has you by the toe,” said Helen sternly. “You must have had nightmare.”
“But look at the hornets!” exclaimed Nan. “Why, the room is full of them.”
Then such an opening of windows and tumbling down that trap door as ensued! Susan had bounced out of bed to join them, regardless of the young men, but since she was enveloped in a high-necked, very thick pink outing flannel gown she was really more clothed than any of them.
“I’d fight ’em if I had on more clothes,” declared Bill, as he landed on the floor below.
“Ouch! One got me on the shin then,” from Lewis.
“One’s down my neck!” squealed Helen.
“Shut the trap door so they won’t disturb Cousin Lizzie,” commanded Douglas.