air of the Five A cloakroom was a strong smell of vinegar. Gretchen
Schmidt's pickles had begun to soak through the bag, and she borrowed
the cover of a box to set them in. These sounds and smells recalled
the picnic to Sylvia's mind, the picnic to which she had been looking
forward with such inexpressible pleasure. For an instant she was
aghast to think that she had forgotten her bananas, tied up all ready
at home on the sideboard. But the next instant she thought sadly that
she probably would not be welcome at the picnic. She went to her seat
and sat forlorn through the changing lessons of the afternoon.

The teacher ground out the half-hour lessons wearily, her eyes on the
clock, as unaware of the crisis in her class as though she were in
another planet. At four o'clock Sylvia filed out with the other
children to the cloakroom, but there was not the usual quick,
practised grab, each for his own belongings. The girls remained
behind, exclaiming and lamenting. Such a clamor arose that the teacher
came hurrying in, anxious for the reputation for good behavior of
her class. Good behavior in the Washington Street School, as in a
penitentiary, was gauged by the degree of silence and immobility
achieved by the inmates.

The girls ran to Miss Miller, crying out, "Somebody's stolen our
lunches,--we left them here--all our boxes and things--and they're all
gone--!"

Sylvia hung back in the door to the schoolroom, apart from the others,
half relieved by the unexpected event which diverted attention from
her.

One of the boys who had gone ahead in the line now came back, a large