Polly of Lady Gay Cottage. Dowd Emma C.
to tag!”
“Why, I don’t! I want you to come, too! Patricia thinks you’re so nice – she said so.”
“She doesn’t know me.”
“Enough to like you. I thought we could be friends all together.” The tone was plaintive.
“Well,” he conceded.
“You know I like you, David, and always shall, no matter how many other friends I have. It was lovely of you to wait for me to-night and to go and tell Miss Cordelia about it – I never shall forget that!”
They had reached the home cottage, and were passing up the walk.
“I guess I wanted to be a monopolist,” confessed David.
“A what?” cried Polly. David’s long words often puzzled her.
He laughed. “Oh, I wanted you all to myself!” he explained. “I’m a pig anyway!”
“No, you’re not!” declared Polly.
He turned quickly. “Good-night! I’ll be on hand to-morrow morning.”
And Polly knew that David had been won over.
True to his promise, he called early for his old chum, and accompanied her and Patricia to school, showing only the merry, winsome side of his nature, and making Polly proud to own him for a friend.
In the hallway the boys laid hold of him, and carried him off upstairs, where a group of lads, with heads together, whispering and snickering, surrounded one of the desks.
“What are they up to?” queried Patricia, watching them furtively. “Vance Alden is reading something from a piece of paper – hear them laugh!”
“Poetry, probably,” guessed Polly. “He’s the greatest boy for writing poetry. He wrote his composition, one week, all in rhyme.”
At recess the secret was soon made known. A long row of boys, arm in arm, marched across the recitation room, singing this bit of doggerel: —
“Ilga Barron,
The great fanfaron,
Went into the closet one day;
But she was so stout
She couldn’t get out,
And there she had to sta-ay!
And there she had to stay!”
Ilga and several other girls, who were drawing on the blackboard, had stopped when the boys formed in line, to see what they were going to do, and as the singing went on they stood as if dazed; but at the last, fairly realizing the indignity, Ilga sprang forward, crimson with anger.
“I didn’t! I didn’t!” she cried. “You mean, mean things!”
Instantly the line rounded into a circle, with the girl inside, and the boys, bowing low, began: —
“Behold your escort home this noon!
And on the way we’ll sing this tune, —
Ilga Barron,
The great fanfaron, – ”
They got no further, for the prisoner, with a dash and a scream, burst her bars, and fled to the next room, followed by a laughing chorus from her tormentors.
Polly was distressed.
“I should think you’d be ashamed,” she declared, “to treat a girl in that way!”
The boys grinned.
“She deserves it!” spoke up Floyd Bascom.
“Yes, look at her last night!” cried Prescott Saunders. “Never said a word, and let you bear all the blame!”
“An’ see the way she’s been actin’ to you all along!” put in Peter Anderson.
“I know,” returned Polly sadly; “but it isn’t fair to sing that to her.”
“Why not? Why do you care?” It was Vance Alden that questioned. The rest were still, awaiting Polly’s answer.
“I’m sorry for her. I know how things hurt.”
But the boys only laughed, and began again the taunting song. They were resolved to have their fun.
“It is kind of mean, isn’t it?” commented Patricia, as she and Polly and Leonora walked back into the schoolroom.
“I wish they wouldn’t,” scowled Polly, glancing across to Ilga’s desk, where she was in excited conversation with three or four girls.
“What does fanfaron mean?” questioned Leonora.
“I don’t know,” answered Polly. “Let’s find out!”
Patricia was first at the dictionary, and turned quickly to the word.
“It means, ‘A bully; a hector; a swaggerer; an empty boaster,’” reading from the page.
Polly looked over.
“Fan” – she began, “why, they haven’t got it right! It isn’t fanfaron at all, the accent is right on the first syllable, and fanfaron doesn’t rhyme a bit! Oh, just you wait!” and she walked quietly away.
Patricia and Leonora followed at a little distance.
Polly went straight to the author of the ditty. There was no distress in her face now. Her eyes were twinkling.
“If I could write as good poetry as you do,” she dimpled, “and I wanted to use uncommon words, I think I’d make sure that the accent was right, and that they rhymed.”
“Wha’ do you mean?” he frowned.
Polly laughed, and ran away.
“There’s only one uncommon word in it,” mused Vance. “I supposed that was – ”
“Those girls have been looking in the dictionary,” suggested Amos Rand. “I saw them there a minute ago.”
“I’ll find out!” cried Vance.
Two or three sprang to accompany him.
“You stay here!” he commanded, waving them back.
He returned talking with Polly.
“Have you told Ilga?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she answered.
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