His eyes fell slowly and inimically from the brow of Whittier to
the braid of reddish hair belonging to Victorine Riordan, the little
octoroon girl who sat directly in front of him. Victorine's back was as
familiar to Penrod as the necktie of Oliver Wendell Holmes. So was her
gayly coloured plaid waist. He hated the waist as he hated Victorine
herself, without knowing why. Enforced companionship in large quantities
and on an equal basis between the sexes appears to sterilize the
affections, and schoolroom romances are few.

Victorine's hair was thick, and the brickish glints in it were
beautiful, but Penrod was very tired of it. A tiny knot of green ribbon
finished off the braid and kept it from unravelling; and beneath the
ribbon there was a final wisp of hair which was just long enough to
repose upon Penrod's desk when Victorine leaned back in her seat. It was
there now. Thoughtfully, he took the braid between thumb and forefinger,
and, without disturbing Victorine, dipped the end of it and the green
ribbon into the inkwell of his desk. He brought hair and ribbon forth
dripping purple ink, and partially dried them on a blotter, though, a
moment later when Victorine leaned forward, they were still able to add
a few picturesque touches to the plaid waist.

Rudolph Krauss, across the aisle from Penrod, watched the operation with
protuberant eyes, fascinated. Inspired to imitation, he took a piece of
chalk from his pocket and wrote "RATS" across the shoulder-blades of the
boy in front of him, then looked across appealingly to Penrod for tokens
of congratulation. Penrod yawned. It may not be denied that at times he
appeared to be a very self-centred boy.