“Friday, the thirteenth! This is my luck-e-e day!”
Petite Jeanne half sang these words as she sat bolt upright in bed and switched on the light.
“You’ll be entirely out of luck if you don’t lie right down and go to sleep!” Florence Huyler, her pal, exclaimed, making a significant gesture toward a sofa pillow which, as the little French girl had reason to know, was both heavy and hard. And Florence had muscle. Of late she had been developing herself. She had gone back to her old work as physical director in one of the many gymnasiums of this great city.
“But why?” the slim girl protested. “It is morning. I am awake. Who wants to sleep after waking up?”
“But look at the clock! Such an hour!”
Petite Jeanne looked. Then her small mouth formed a perfect circle.
“But yet I am awake!” she protested.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she pleaded, “you with your hundred and sixty pounds, and poor me, just a little bit of nothing.”
No, Florence would not harm her little French friend. She adored her.
“See!” The exquisite little dancer tossed her blonde head, danced out of bed, flipped out one light, flipped on another, and then continued, “I shall be away in one little minute. This is my luckee day. I must go to dance the sun up from the lake where he has been sleeping, the lazee fellow!”