cucumber stuck in the corner of his mouth like a fat, green cigar. He
announced with evident satisfaction in the girls' misfortune that the
steps were strewn with pickles. The bag must have burst entirely
as they were being carried downstairs. Gretchen Schmidt began to
weep,--"all them good pickles--!" One of the girls flew at the boy who
brought the bad news. "I just bet you did it yourself, Jimmy Weaver,
you an' Frank Kennedy. You boys were mad anyhow because we didn't ask
you to come to the picnic."

Jimmy's face assumed the most unmistakably genuine expression of
astonishment and aggrieved innocence. "Aw, you're off yer base! I
wouldn't ha' gone to your darned old picnic--an' wasn't I in the room
every minute this afternoon?"

"No, you weren't--you weren't!" More of the girls had come to the
attack, and now danced about the boy, hurling accusations at him. "You
got excused to get a drink of water! And so did Pete Roberts! You did
it then! You did it then! You did--"

"Hush, children! Not so loud!" said Miss Miller. "_You'll have the
Principal down here_!"

At this terrible threat the children, in spite of their heat, lowered
their voices. Jimmy was beginning an angry, half-alarmed protest--"Aw,
'twas a tramp must ha' got in an' saw--" when he was pushed out of the
way by a small, vigorous hand. Judith Marshall walked in, her face
very pale. She was breathing hard, and through her parted lips, as
though she had been running fast, her small white teeth showed like
those of an enraged squirrel. "I threw your picnic things in the
river," she said.