"We have always done that, Miss St. Leger," replied Hilary. "It isn't through us that Duane sent in her resignation. But supposing the juniors still refuse to acknowledge Duane's authority?"
"I do not think they will do that, with my authority behind the head prefect's. In fact, I shall see to it that they do not. I will speak to them about it, if necessary, but I think things will work more smoothly after the holidays. That is all I have to say to you just now, girls. I know I can rely on you always to do what you can to help."
That term at Easthampton, however, was destined to end in a manner befitting the rest of its troubled course. The day after the intervention of the Principal the baby of Dormitory A, little Erica Salter, was taken to the sanatorium with a high temperature, her illness being later diagnosed as a severe attack of 'flu. Hilary was the next one to fall a victim, and when, before the week was out, half a dozen girls in Carslake's and as many in the other houses joined them, Miss St. Leger decided that the best plan would be to close the school before the epidemic grew worse; in any case, it would only shorten the term by a bare week, and as examinations were over, the only event that was left was the Sports Day, and that she decided to postpone till early in the next term.
Great was the jubilation in the school when it was announced that girls might communicate with their people and leave for the summer vacation as soon as they could make arrangements to do so. All thoughts of lessons were abandoned and everyone commenced to pack feverishly. The dormitories and the vestibule presented a scene as animated and busy as a London terminus on August Bank Holiday.
"Never seen it done so quickly," remarked France. "Most new kids commence packing at least a week before breaking-up day. I remember my first vacation, like all new girls, I was so frightened I shouldn't get packed in time that I started three days beforehand. That night, after bed bell had rung I discovered I had packedallmy nightdresses in the bottom of my trunk, which was downstairs already locked and corded. I was never in such a hurry to pack after that."
It was astonishing how quickly the school seemed to empty as party after party, some walking, some in taxis, set off for the station to catch their trains. The mistresses were busy taking the juniors to the station and seeing them safely off, or delivering them into the charge of the older girls. Kitty, who was spending the holiday with the Wades, departed with France and Margaret. At last, a strange silence settled over the school which had such a short time ago buzzed with life. The summer vacation had begun.
Sports Day had come and gone. Carslake's was feeling extremely pleased with itself, not to say jubilant; at last the house had distinguished itself. Perhaps the girls realized it really was time they "bucked up"; perhaps Fortune, for once, was on their side. Certainly they had done better than they had hoped for, and when the points were totalled up Easthampton stared in amazement.
When the new term began, there were some changes in the school, as was only natural. For one thing, most girls had moved up a form; this was specially noticeable in Carslake's, where the majority of the turbulent Fourth had attained the dignity of seniors. That change, at least, was decidedly one for the better. Of course, some of the old familiar faces were gone. Phyllis Knight had left and Green's had a new head prefect. Prince's mourned the loss of Eileen Gilbert and others of the Sixth, but everybody was glad to see both Salome and Vanda return and resume their old positions. They had matriculated well, but—as they both intended taking a university course and were barely eighteen—they had come back to study for a university scholarship, for which there was a special class at Easthampton.
Kitty had been very pleased to hear that she had succeeded in passing the Senior Cambridge, having been rather doubtful of success. Hilary had taken a Second Class, Duane a Third, while France and Kitty had each achieved a pass. The four girls were now Sixth-formers, their successes having entitled them to their remove, while Kitty had been exalted to the rank of prefect. She felt herself to be quite an important personage now.
Hilary unfortunately had not returned. She had had a relapse after reaching home, and her people had sent her away for a long holiday. But she wrote to her form companions in a cheerful spirit, saying she hoped to be back amongst them before very long, prepared for more hard work.
Hilary's absence made quite an important difference in the relations of the new Sixth at Carslake's—but that shall be explained later. It would not be right to pass over Sports Day without entering into the details of some of the Carslake triumphs.
They had made a good beginning in the high jump. Salome was the winner, beating the school record with a jump of 4 feet 6 inches, but Kitty gained a very valuable two points in securing second place. The obstacle race had fallen to Paddy, and Carslake's did not win a point, nor in the tortoise race that followed. But Peggy O'Nell won the junior 100 yards in brilliant style, and Daisy Carteret was second in the junior 220 yards. The first and second places in throwing the cricket ball were secured by Prince's and Green's respectively, but Bertha was a close third with a good throw.
When the senior flat race finals began, interest increased. The half-mile had fewest entries, for it was naturally regarded as the stiffest. In this, the final, there were only four competitors, two from Prince's, one from Sheerston's and one from Carslake's. Each house shouted encouragement to its own runners. Vanda West was generally reckoned to be the most likely winner, though several hockey colours declared that Duane might "pull it off."
"You know," one of them declared as they lined up, "she can get down the field before you can look round, when she's on the ball and there's a chance for a shot at goal."
"You're right," said Gwen Parker, the former school right wing, who had returned with several others to compete for her house, Sports Day being officially a last year's event. "I've found myself with all my work cut out to keep up with her when she gets on the move in a match."
"Still, Vanda canstay, and that's what counts in the half-mile."
"Yes, or else I should have had a shot at it," replied Gwen.
Then somebody shouted: "Mind you don't go to sleep in the middle, Cato, thinking it's bedtime!" And that fetched a general laugh.
The next minute the four were off, running with steady strides, Vanda and Duane side by side and a few paces behind the other two. At the end of the second lap the two rash ones who had rushed ahead at the beginning had dropped behind, panting and breathless. Now Vanda and Duane were in front, running neck and neck. The pace was already fast but Eileen increased it, hoping to gain the lead, and as they entered the last lap, Vanda leading but Duane refusing to drop behind by more than a yard, the yells of the Prince's girls increased in volume. The excitement was intense. Even France, who was wont to declaim emphatically that she had no patience with these "races and things," hopped wildly about at Kitty's side and yelled to Duane as she passed:
"Go it! Remember the match against Winthorpe last year!"
The critical moment had come. Duane quickened her long strides with a scarcely perceptible effort, drew ahead of Vanda, and passed her, despite her attempt at a spurt, increasing her lead all down the last half-lap, "running," so France declared excitedly, "just as if it were the hundred yards' sprint."
Kitty cheered with the rest, and as Duane, breathing hurriedly but otherwise looking the same as usual, strolled up in her leisurely fashion with her hands in her blazer pockets, she said impulsively, "By Jove! you can run, then, Duane."
Duane's glance met Kitty's quizzically. "Really think so?" she drawled. "Have I at last won a word of praise from you? I can hardly express my overpowering emotion."
Kitty's face flamed, and she fell back a step, feeling as if the other girl had slapped her in the face. "It was horrid of her to say that," she thought to herself, feeling hurt and resentful. "I really did mean it quite sincerely." Duane, meanwhile, went on after a short pause, "It's your turn next. Now show them that I'm not the only gifted one."
Kitty looked straight at her just for a moment and her eyes sparkled. "I'm going to," she snapped, and turned away, vowing that she would win the quarter-mile or die in the attempt. Strange to say, for once Kitty was not thinking of the honour of Carslake's; as she lined up for the race with lips set determinedly, the house was not even in her mind, only the house's head prefect.
The faces of the Carslake girls became even more seraphic when Kitty won the quarter-mile, by a bare half-yard. After that there was a short interval. The afternoon was drawing to an end, and only two events remained to be contested. The excitement mounted when the girls who were keeping account of the points scored, announced that Sheerston's was leading, with despised Carslake's only one point behind.
"We must win one of these last two," said Kitty desperately. "Another first would probably do it."
But in the relay race, their luck deserted them. All three girls ran well, but Peggy, who was shaking with nervous excitement, muffed taking the flag from Duane and lost a valuable three or four seconds and the start Duane had given her. Both she and Kitty made a desperate attempt to overtake the leader, but found it beyond their powers, and finished third. They were now two points behind Sheerston's, who had finished second.
There was still the 100 yards to be run. The unhappy Frances, who was Carslake's sole representative, found herself overwhelmed with exhortations, advice and admonitions.
"It rests with you now, France," said Duane. "Mind you run for all you're worth." France groaned. "For goodness' sake stop that. I wish I'd never entered for the wretched thing. You put my name down, Duane, and you must be responsible for the consequences. I don't pretend to be able to run races. I'm not an athlete, I'm an artist."
"Never mind what you are," said Duane. "Just pull up your stockings and run. I know you can sprint a bit, for I've seen you dash across the quad when you've been a bit late for class. Imagine someone in front is running off with your most prized picture. Cheer up! It's only a hundred yards, so it won't kill you."
"I'll pose for you if you'll do your very best," urged Kitty. "Next Wednesday afternoon."
"No," replied France, with a funny air of dignity. "I don't want any bribes. Though I've entered for this race under protest, I'll run my very hardest," and she nodded her head determinedly.
France took her place with a painful expression on her face. "Looks as if she were going to have a tooth out, doesn't she!" whispered Peggy O'Nell to her right-hand neighbour, with a chuckle.
The flag fell. For a few breathless seconds there was nothing to be seen but a flash of black-clad legs, then the runners threw themselves headlong at the tape and burst beyond it. There was scarcely an inch between the first three girls, or so it seemed to the watchers, but the judges gave out the results; France first, Gwen Parker second and Paddy third. Carslake's had gained three points and Sheerston's one; and the day ended in Sheerston's and Carslake's tying for first place.
So, strange to say, it was France who was the hero of the occasion. She found it decidedly a pleasant sensation, and began to plume herself complacently, remarking in a confidential tone to the other seniors: "You know, I always did rather fancy myself as a winger at hockey, if only it weren't such a waste of time using all one's spare minutes just to play a game."
"And that's where you're going to play in future," said Duane firmly. "A girl who can sprint like you can is wasted anywhere else. We'll make it a fair bargain. You come to practices regularly and we'll pose for your blessed Academy pictures, or National Gallery portraits, whichever it happens to be. I'll even," she ended, in a burst of generosity, "come now and again and blow your organ for you when Orpheus is indisposed."
France eyed her study-companion reflectively. "If you can summon up enough energy to come and blow the organ, I'll play in all the house matches; so there," she declared.
The results of Sports Day had certainly improved matters at Carslake's. There was no open rebellion against the head prefect's rule, though now and again there were little unpleasant moments which showed that the house would never quite forget the fact that their head prefect's reputation had a deep and ineradicable stain on it. There was not the same cheerful alacrity displayed in obeying Duane's wishes as in obeying those of the other Sixth-formers; obedience was shown, but it was a grudging obedience and would probably never be anything different.
The following evening Duane was alone in her study, seated in her favourite attitude—that is to say, leaning in the depths of an easy-chair with her feet across another chair—when Kitty entered.
"Hallo! What is it?" inquired Duane, looking up from her book.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," said Kitty, politely.
"Not at all. I'm only finishing off that wretched paraphrasing set us for prep. Couldn't get it done before."
There was a pause till Kitty recollected she had not yet explained the reason for her visit. "Oh, by the way, France told me you had something to say to me. That's why I looked in."
"Oh, I see. It's nothing of much importance. Any time would have done. I thought, until Hilary returns, you might as well dig in here with France and me. It's lonely having a room all on your own."
Kitty flushed in surprise.
"Oh, but I don't mind that. I don't want to cause you any inconvenience."
"Not at all. There's heaps of room for three here, if we clear some of France's litter."
Kitty looked uncomfortable. "Was it you or France who thought of this?"
"Does it matter who thought of it?" returned Duane, carelessly.
Kitty was silent again, feeling still more uncomfortable.
"Thanks all the same," she said, at last, "but I don't think I will."
"Why not?" Duane, not unnaturally, wanted to know.
Kitty felt herself turning crimson and blurted out, "Well, you see, it might be rather awkward."
"Awkward? How?"
"What I mean is that you and I aren't exactly friends."
Duane lifted her glance now, and kept it fixed on Kitty, but merely remarked coolly:
"Aren't we?"
"You know we are not," replied Kitty, a little impatiently. "We never have been. We felt—felt antagonistic the very first moment we met each other."
"You did, I suppose," rejoined Duane. "I don't know that I felt anything at all. However, that's no reason why we need go on being antagonistic, is it?"
"What do you mean?" demanded Kitty, bluntly.
Duane leaned back in her chair and smiled lazily at Kitty.
"Why shouldn't we be friends now?"
Kitty flushed again, and moved uneasily, her agony of embarrassment mounting. Duane tilted her chair back and went on cheerfully:
"You don't seem in a hurry to speak. After all, there's no reason why we shouldn't be friends, is there?"
"I'm sorry," Kitty blurted out. "I'd rather not. You see——" she stopped.
"Well? Out with it!"
"It's the Richoter," poor Kitty went on, growing hotter and hotter, and angry with herself for feeling so uncomfortable under Duane's lazy, quizzical glance. "I—you see—I couldn't be friends with—with anyone who——"
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Duane. "You're mighty particular."
"I don't want to seem a prig. If it had been anything else—but—but that kind of thing——"
"Then, the Richoter affair aside, your only prejudice to admitting me to your—your circle of friends, would be gone?"
"I don't know," replied Kitty, frankly. "You can'tmakeyourself be friends with anyone, you know. At any rate, I don't think so. We're so utterly unlike, aren't we?"
"Are we? Then do you think that people must be alike to be friends?"
"They must have tastes in common," replied Kitty, firmly. "At least, so it has always seemed to me."
"Why not give it a trial?" suggested Duane.
Kitty stood irresolute, conscious that in some curious indefinable way she was attracted by the other girl's proposal and yet repelled at the same time. The affair was settled by the abrupt entrance of France.
"Oh, hallo, Kitty! I suppose Duane's told you about digging in with us till Hilary returns? What's that? Doesn't want to? Why not?"
"She says we're antagonistic," replied Duane.
"What nonsense!" said France, very firmly. "What on earth does she mean? You bring your things along, Kitty, and I'm sure we shall enjoy each other's company while we're here," and Kitty rather reluctantly gave way.
France stepped back and surveyed her plasticine model of Duane's profile with an air of satisfaction.
"I say, girls," she remarked, conversationally, "I really think Carslake's is being treated with due respect at last. I don't think the other houses have yet recovered from the shock we gave them on Sports Day."
Kitty looked up from her book, as if relieved to find an excuse for so doing. "If only we can keep our new reputation," she said seriously. "We mustn't get slack again."
"We must give them another shock," said Duane, sleepily. "A real startler this time. I'll think something out." She yawned with a muffled, "Goodness, how sleepy a fire makes one!" and silence settled down again in the study. A little later, however, there was a message from Miss Carslake, "Would Duane please bring along her weekly report. It should have been brought earlier in the evening." This report was a record of lines or punishments of that description imposed by any of the prefects during the week.
"Oh, hang!" exclaimed Miss Carslake's disgusted head prefect. "She was out when I went before, and of course she must start bothering when I'm comfortably settled down. D'you think I might send the book along for once without going myself?"
"I shouldn't advise you to," replied Kitty, in a discouraging tone. "I don't suppose for a minute that would satisfy Miss Carslake."
"Cut along and get it over," advised France, grinning. "It won't take very long."
With much grumbling the head prefect lowered her long legs to the ground, pulled herself up and took her departure. When she returned a little later it was in the company of the other three Sixth-formers, and there was an unusual air of animation about her.
"I say, girls, an idea!" she announced, when they were all inside. "Why not take a leaf out of Kitty's book! I suggest challenging the rest of the school to a hockey match—Top House v. the Rest."
"That practically means," said Margaret, judicially, "Carslake's against the school first eleven. It sounds quite mad to me. What do you say, Kitty?"
"Well, I certainly agree with Duane that it would cause a sensation in the school," replied Kitty, shrewdly. "However, the weak point in the idea, as far as I can see, is that we shall get such a licking that we shan't be able to lift up our heads again."
"I don't see why we should," from Duane.
"But you don't really think we should stand the slightest chance against the school eleven?" protested Bertha.
"Oh, come, Bertha," remonstrated Duane, "you and Kitty, of all people, to be so faint-hearted over a hockey match when both of you are practically certain of getting your hockey colours before the end of the season!"
"But three can't beat eleven."
"I'm not proposing they should. Leave it to me to get up an eleven. This house has been so used to holding humble opinions about itself that it can't get out of the habit. You forget one or two things: that there are sixteen seniors now, where last year there were only six; as that quite half of the old school eleven left last term and there will have to be a big proportion of new colours in it. I will guarantee to get quite a respectable line of forwards from our Lower Fifth, if we older ones can manage the defence."
"And supposing they refuse to accept our challenge, as being beneath their dignity?" said Sonia.
"They won't do that. We should be able to say they were afraid to accept it. A challenge is a challenge."
Silence, while everybody looked at each other. "Well, what about it?" asked Duane. "Will you do it or not, if the Lower Fifth are willing?"
Kitty was the first to respond.
"I'm on," she said, impulsively. "Though I believe we haven't the slightest chance of winning. All the same, the idea's a gorgeous one and for pure cheek takes the biscuit. I wish I'd thought of it myself."
Carslake's hockey challenge certainly did cause a sensation in the school. Some girls treated it with ridicule, a few were angry, all agreed that it was awful cheek on the part of the much-despised Carslake's. The challenge was accepted, however, with the firm resolution that the challengers should be punished for their cheek by such a beating as had never yet been seen on the school playing-fields. Carslake's tried to assume a careless, confident, nonchalant air, but the only one of them who really succeeded was their head prefect and that because the pose was a natural one. Inwardly they were all quaking at their temerity, even such bold spirits as Kitty and Peggy O'Nell, and looking forward to the match with feelings of apprehension.
Duane, with an undue amount of deliberation, had drawn up her team. "I've put Bertha and Edith in their usual positions at right back and goal," she explained. "Kitty, I want you to be the other back. Halves—Margaret, myself, Mary. Forwards, wings—France and Peggy. Yes, France, you must play, and what's more you'll have to run as you've never run in your life before, not even on Sports Day."
"I'll do it," said France heroically, "for the honour of the house. Even if it means dropping dead half-way through the match."
"Dropping dead! Rubbish!" returned Duane, with unusual energy for her. "Daisy, you must take centre-forward. I'll help you all I can. Inners—Barbara and Rosalie. That's the best we can do, I think!"
The match was fixed for Wednesday, and the Carslake girls practised diligently in their team positions whenever they had the chance. Kitty enjoyed these practices immensely and played left-back with great vigour—perhaps, sometimes, with more vigour than skill. Duane's attitude towards these practices amused her very much. She did not play herself, but, wrapped in her coat with its high fur collar, stood by the side of the ground, leaning gracefully upon her stick and giving advice and criticism on the play by means of a remarkable flow of cutting remarks, directed chiefly against the forwards and halves. According to her, they were slow and hesitating, they used neither their sticks nor their feet properly, their shooting was miserably feeble and their passing most inaccurate.
At any rate, Kitty reflected, Duane certainly seemed to know all there was to know about the theoretical side of hockey. She also seemed to have the knack of surprising everyone by pulling off the most unexpected things, in an almost accidental kind of way. Kitty was astonished that she did not feel so much annoyed and irritated—as she certainly would have done three months ago—as quietly amused. She put it down to the fact that she was getting used to Duane and her ways.
She found that Bertha was quite a reliable partner to have at right back; she was sturdily built, and, if inclined to be a trifle slow against quick forwards, she stuck to them like a leech. She was a queer, reserved girl with little to say for herself; Kitty divined that there was a certain streak of sullen obstinacy in her character.
The day of the match came at last. Everybody seemed unusually restless during afternoon lessons, and as soon as dismissal bell rang there was a general stampede for the playing-fields.
The Carslake eleven gathered in a little group inside one room in the pavilion. "Oh dear," sighed Peggy, "I feel most frightfully squirmy inside. For mercy's sake, Edie, don't let any shots through."
"Can't help it sometimes," mumbled Edie, wriggling nervously.
"Don't look so glum, everybody!" cried Kitty, looking around. "We're not beaten yet, you know."
The youngest members of the team brightened up at this, for there certainly was something cheering in the sight of Kitty, looking so vigorous and dependable. Kitty glanced curiously round at their captain. That worthy stood in her favourite attitude—viz. leaning gracefully on her stick, a well-worn weapon with a heavy crook, guard and rubber-bound handle. She, too, was quite a striking figure in her perfectly fitting tunic ending well above her knees, as unperturbed as ever. "Time we were on the field," she said. "Just remember this, please. Whatever happens, you forwards are to keep forward."
"Here, Duane," remonstrated France. "You're not going to play with that watch on, are you?"
"Watch?" said Duane, vaguely. "Oh—er—no, of course not. I quite forgot it. Here, mind it for me, one of you kids."
"You've got shoes on too," struck in Margaret, reprovingly. "I thought Miss Bryce said nobody was to play matches in shoes unless she had pads on."
"Can't help it if she did. I never could play in boots—can't run. Don't worry, Margaret. I'll look out for my shins if you'll look after yours."
They all scrambled out of the pavilion and the two teams lined up on the field. The school eleven certainly looked a stiff lot to tackle, for Easthampton boasted of one of the best ladies' elevens in the county. The centre-forwards bullied off and for the first twenty minutes both sides continued to strain every nerve to keep up the pressure. The wise prognosticated that the pace could not last; the weaker side would not be able to keep it going.
On the wings France and Peggy, as fast as their opponents, were always dangerous and several times carried the ball right to the goal circle, but could not break through the school defence. Carslake's, too, was defending gallantly against a dashing forward line. Duane in the centre held Paddy and her two inners in check, and more than one of the onlookers remarked, "Cato's playing a good game to-day."
The Carslake captain had quite a distinctive style. She never appeared flurried, and, for hockey, was even unhurried. She played with neat adroitness, using both stick and feet with remarkable dexterity, invariably successful in robbing the attacker of the ball just at the right moment and hitting away without pause, as hard and accurate as a machine. The danger came from the wings, for the Carslake half-backs were comparatively weak and too slow to hold the school forwards. Kitty and Bertha found their work cut out for them in that quarter, while, by a tacit understanding, Duane held the centre.
But the pace was bound to tell. The end of the first twenty minutes found the lighter side being slowly overwhelmed and pressed back. The forwards made their attacking dashes at longer and still longer intervals, while the halves were back with Kitty and Bertha, resisting desperately. Twice Edith saved, but the school were not to be denied. A furious attack swept the ball over the goal line, then the left wing broke through, and when half-time sounded the school were leading by two goals to nil.
The Carslake team walked off the field and into the pavilion, looking tired and dispirited, with the feeling that worse things were in store for them in the second half. Public opinion was the same, for it was obvious that Carslake's were tired out and worn down by the pace, while the school felt as fresh as ever when they thought of the lead they had gained over their opponents.
"If it weren't just for a few—Duane, Kitty and Bertha," remarked one of the team, "we'd be all over them, and they wouldn't have a look in. Those three are as hard as nails, I know, but even they won't be able to keep us out much longer. It'll be a walk-over next half."
Meanwhile, in the pavilion, the younger members of the Carslake team dropped down wearily upon the nearest seats.
"Oh dear," gasped Daisy, "I feel nearly dead-beat."
"And I've got the stitch," added France, dismally, for the artist, good though her intentions might be, was not in the form to stand a gruelling match like this.
When Duane entered everybody seemed to glance spontaneously towards her, as the central figure in the whole affair. After all, it was she who was responsible for it.
She stood looking at them for a moment in silence. Her pale, rather sallow-complexioned face was flushed, her hair for once was ruffled and untidy; her light grey eyes shone vividly in their dark setting.
"Hallo!" she greeted them. "What are you all looking so dismal about?"
"We're not looking dismal exactly," protested Peggy, "but—well—they'll walk over us in the second half, Duane."
"And why on earth," demanded Duane, "should they walk over us?"
"We're dead-beat. I feel as if I couldn't run another step," with a weary sigh. "I simply couldn't get past those backs."
"And I've got the stitch," added France, lugubriously.
"And my heel rubs."
"Oh, of course, if you're going to lie down on the grass andlet 'em," said Duane slowly and with supreme scorn, "I've no doubt theywillwalk over you."
Peggy flushed. "Of course, we'll do our best. But all the same, it was ridiculous to think we could do anything against the school eleven."
"Well, naturally," said Duane, sharply, "if you're giving in like this, it is hopeless. Only please realize that the match isn't over, so we haven't lost yet. I haven't been accustomed to playing in a team that sits down half-way through a match and says it's beaten. I, for one, certainly don't admit it, and I'm going on playing and sticking to it while I've a breath in me, if I'm the only one in the team left on the field. You stick to me and I'll stick to you. I will, on my honour, and what's more, I'll see you through somehow."
The last words came out in a rush. The girl was still facing them, the blaze of an unconquered spirit lighting her brilliant eyes.
For a moment, nobody stirred or spoke. Then Kitty jumped to her feet, and crossed over to the head prefect's side.
"I'm sticking to you, Duane," she exclaimed, clearly, driven by an impulse she did not stop to analyse. "There'll be two to play on to the end, anyway."
"And so am I," in Bertha's more deliberate tones.
"And I." France, too, sprang impetuously to her feet.
The spirit of the leader was as infectious as a disease. Everyone was on her feet now, eager and enthusiastic. It was as if a flame had suddenly been lit, spreading like a flash from one to the other. It was a different team entirely from the one that had entered the pavilion a few minutes ago.
Duane surveyed them a moment in silence. "That's better," she said, quietly. "I guess, if you're not very big, you're game anyway."
"There's the whistle," cried somebody, and the forwards ran out laughing and talking. The bigger girls followed more decorously. Duane laid her hand lightly on Kitty's shoulder.
"Thanks, Kitty," she said, in a low voice.
"What for?" said Kitty, awkward and embarrassed. "For backing you up? And what else should I do? You're the captain of this team."
The game began again after much the same fashion as in the first half. The school eleven, who had expected to find their work much easier now, were astonished to discover that their opponents were playing with a new burst of energy and enthusiasm, sticking to it determinedly. The spectators, too, were surprised, and generously conceded that if Carslake's had rather too much cheek, their hockey eleven certainly had plenty of grit.
The game went on, and no addition was made to the score. True, the school forwards were getting most of the play, but they could not break through the defence. Kitty cleared the ball away time after time, vowing inwardly that they should not get through again. Bertha stuck to it with sturdy resolution; that streak of sullen obstinacy in her character served her in good stead now. Duane had lost a little of her unflurried, machine-like precision, and nearly all of her casual coolness, but her hitting was as clean and as hard as ever, and Paddy was checked and held in her most desperate rushes. France was gasping for breath, and Daisy was limping painfully.
"Hurt?" inquired Duane, as they halted for a twenty-five bully.
"No, not much," replied Daisy, bravely. "But I'm afraid I can't run. I've twisted my foot over."
Somebody shouted out, "Buck up, the school! Only ten more minutes!"
"Get behind me," said Duane, quickly. "I'll play centre-forward for the rest of the game."
Now Paddy had the ball. But before she could pass, Duane had tackled her, taken possession of the ball, and swung it out to Peggy.
"Now then, Peggy!" she cried. "Take it down on the wing."
Peggy responded pluckily, and gathering all her remaining energies, spurted for all she was worth, then centred wildly with her last effort. Before anyone realized what was happening Duane had caught the ball on her stick, passed the right-back with a swerving run, was inside the circle, and without pausing had shot for goal. The ball rose in the air, twisting and spinning, and passed between the posts and far beyond like a streak of lightning.
The Carslake supporters cheered frantically at this unexpected dénouement. But the next few minutes' play was still more amazing and bewildering. Duane took the bully now, and with the adroitness of one thoroughly at home at centre-forward, secured the ball and passed it to her forward. But the forwards had fought so well that they were almost "done"—little more could be got out of them. The school forwards were on the ball and had swept it right to the goal. Edith, on her knees, brought off the best "save" of her experience, and Kitty cleared the ball away, hitting right down the centre with a splendid shot to Duane, some instinct telling her what to do.
Duane stopped the ball with her foot and was off like a flash, running like a hare and with a control of the ball that at such a speed was amazing. The centre-half was out-distanced and Duane held on her way. With a feint to the right she dodged round the back, swerved sharply and, hardly pausing to steady herself, shot with all the strength behind her strong arms and shoulders. The ball skimmed over the ground and curled round the inside of the post. Carslake's had equalized.
Dazed and taken aback, the school lined up in their places, hardly realizing what had happened. Perhaps their astonishment was their undoing, for Duane and Daisy had wriggled the ball through at the bully, and before the school could pull themselves together, Duane was racing down the field again. Just before she could be tackled she passed the ball with delightful accuracy to France, who was quite uncovered for the moment. To her everlasting credit, that budding artist rose to the occasion nobly, for in spite of her "stitch," she carried the ball well into the enemy's quarters and without attempting what she knew was beyond her powers, centred again to Duane. The pass was not an easy one, but once more Duane had bobbed up in the right spot, and made no mistake in intercepting it. With her amazing swerve she was past the first back, but before she could shoot, the goalkeeper, running out, had tackled her. However, Duane's stick was still behind the ball and the impetus of her dash carried her forward a few staggering paces to drop on her knees just beyond the posts, while the ball rolled gently over the line and came to rest a foot or two beyond. It was one of the most curious goals ever scored on the ground.
Duane was on her feet, a little pale, and panting audibly now; she picked up her stick and walked back to the centre, unheeding the loud cheering and commotion that was going on around. Hardly, however, had play restarted, than the whistle rang out, loud and prolonged. The great match was over, and Carslake's had defeated the Rest by the extraordinary feat of scoring three goals in the last ten or twelve minutes' play.
The room commonly known as the "boot-room" was crowded to overflowing with girls. Most of the house, in fact, with the exception of the half-a-dozen senior girls, seemed to be there. The hockey players were busy changing their muddy boots and washing their hands in the basins, where there was plenty of hot water and soap. The rest were all busy chattering excitedly to them about the match. Needless to say, the whole house was jubilant and hardly knew how to contain itself.
Amidst the babel of excited tongues, a remark from one of the team was always listened to with respect and interest. "Who would have dreamed it?" Babs was declaiming. "Shan't we crow over the other houses now! I really can't imagine how we did it."
"There's no use blinking at the facts," retorted Peggy, bluntly. "'Twas Duane that did most of the doing. We all did our best, but it was Duane who won the match for us."
"There wasn't a player on the field to touch her," declared Daisy.
"Yes," agreed Peggy. "Didn't she run those last two dashes down the field! There wasn't one who could overtake her. And when she shot for goal, she didn't give the goalkeeper much chance."
"Her shooting always was fine," another girl remarked. "I can remember it in the matches last year."
"But doesn't it seem simply rotten," came from Peggy, slowly, "that a player like her shouldn't be in the school eleven, playing for the school. Of course I know—" she paused, uncomfortably. "Well, I suppose it's her own fault and the hockey club were right enough to drop her and—and all that. But, dash it all, it seems such a waste! I bet she's the finest centre-forward Easthampton's ever had."
"And knowing that she can play like that," added Daisy, thoughtfully, "she must hate being out of all the big matches."
Little Erica Salter had been standing near by listening eagerly, motionless, her hands hanging down by her sides, her eyes, with a very rapt look in them, fixed on Daisy and Peggy as they were speaking. The emotional, sensitive child was plainly stirred to the depths by the thrilling happenings of the afternoon, of which the tingling sense of excitement and triumph still pervaded the whole atmosphere. She spoke up suddenly, when Daisy had finished:
"But supposing—just supposing Duane never did it after all?"
"Well then, it would be jolly hard lines on her, that's all I can say," replied Peggy. "But I don't see why we need bother our heads about that. Duane must have done it. Nobody else could have."
"But supposing another girl had done it, and kept it secret?"
"Then all I can say is that she'd be the meanest sort of creature alive," returned Peggy, decidedly, "and if she were ever found out, the girls would jolly well make the school too hot to hold her."
Erica clasped her hands nervously together, and said with solemn conviction, "I'm sure she would deserve everything she got."
Just at that moment the door opened, and in came Duane, Kitty and the other hockey players, having washed and cleaned themselves in their own cubicles. They had come to change their muddy footgear.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Duane, in her soft familiar drawl. "What a crowd! The whole house seems to have assembled in the boot-room, evidently under the mistaken impression that it's a hotel lounge. Clear out, you kids. Don't you know tea bell's gone?"
There was a general scramble for the door. Kitty, drawing on a pair of indoor shoes, was overcome with laughter at the sight. In a very short time the room was cleared of all except the hockey players themselves.
"Hurry up, girls," Duane advised. "You know Miss Carslake hates anyone to be late in to meals. Everyone ready?"
Daisy stretched her arms above her head. "Oh dear! I'm sure I shall be stiff all over to-morrow. But it was worth being stiff for the rest of the term. I say, Duane," she added, half hesitating, half wistfully. "We didn't let you down, did we? Towards the end, you know."
Duane, her hand on the door-handle, turned and faced them, lounging back against the door with easy, unstudied grace, aristocrat in every line of her.
"Let me down?" she repeated. "No, of course you didn't. I tell you what, you kids, you played up like heroes, and the house ought to be jolly proud of you. Kitty and Bertha were as good as the school backs any day, while Peggy's run got us the first goal, and France rose to the occasion nobly at the last one. Anyway, you've given the old place the shock of its life." She smiled at them with eyes that had grown suddenly brilliant, and for the moment everyone, even Kitty, forgot all about the Richoter and all that had happened the previous term.
"But it was you who scored the goals," said Peggy, honestly.
"Of course," returned Duane, lightly. "Didn't I tell you that was my one particular forte. Wait tell our next house match and we'll see what we can do then."
She pushed open the door and led the way out, France remarking that Miss Carslake could hardly row them for being a few minutes late for once, after the glory they had brought upon the house.
The next day, Wednesday, being half-holiday, Miss Carslake had arranged to take some of the girls on a cycling expedition to the downs, where recent excavations had disclosed traces of both early Celtic and later Roman habitation. The house mistress, who took the senior history classes in the school, was apt to wax enthusiastic over neolithic remains or mediæval architecture, and during the summer months organized many walking or cycling expeditions to see a prehistoric barrow on the downs, or a little village church with a Norman chancel, or an architectural curiosity such as a low side window or a hagioscope.
Some twelve or fifteen girls had given in their names to the head prefect as desirous of going. Duane was in her study that evening, making out this list, when there came a timid tap on the door and Erica Salter entered.
"Hallo! What is it?" inquired Duane, glancing up. "You, Erica! What's up?"
"Nothing," said Erica. "That is—" She glanced at Kitty, who was also in the room writing letters, but there was evidently nothing to be afraid of from that quarter, and Erica continued, "That is to say, I—I want you to ask Miss Carslake if I can come to-morrow to Stretton Downs, Duane."
"You! 'Fraid not, Erica. You're too small."
"I'm not so very," protested Erica. "And I'm used to cycling. I've got my bike here."
"It's too far for you," said Duane decidedly. "Nine miles there and back."
"But I've often cycled as much as that in a day, at home in the holidays. Really and truly I have."
"Bertha's not going, is she?" asked Duane, glancing down at her list.
"No. She doesn't want to. She said she hated anything to do with history. But ask her if I haven't cycled just as far these summer holidays."
Duane hesitated. "But what on earth do you want to go for, kid?" she said somewhat impatiently. "You're not interested in Celtic and Roman remains. Goodness knows if I am, for that matter, but I suppose I'm expected to be."
Kitty, of course, had been listening to this conversation. Something in the child's obvious eagerness touched her. Besides, Erica had never looked very well since that bad attack of influenza the last term. Her face was paler and thinner, her dark eyes looked bigger. It even seemed to Kitty that there was something strained and tense in her expression and attitude, though probably that was merely imagination on her part. She broke in with:
"Oh, let her go, Duane, as she seems so very keen. If she gets tired I'll undertake to give her a push."
Duane shrugged her shoulders in her characteristic fashion. "I suppose, since Kitty takes your part, I shall have to put your name down. Kitty's quite capable of pushing herself and you too; in fact, she'd doubtless enjoy the double burden."
Kitty glanced sharply at Duane. Was she trying to be nasty, or was it merely her flippant, cynical way of talking? Impossible to tell.
Kitty glanced once more at Erica, who was exclaiming gratefully, "Oh, thank youeverso much, both of you! Youaretwo dears," and said in a low voice to Duane:
"I don't think the child's looking very fit, do you?"
Duane frowned slightly, then turned to Erica. "I suppose you haven't anything on for the rest of the evening?"
"No. Nothing special. I wanted to read, but it's so noisy in the common-room. It makes my head ache."
"Sit down in that chair then, for a bit," said Duane abruptly, pointing with the handle of her pen to the easy chair in front of the hearth. "Kitty and I are both busy, so it will be quiet enough in here."
The child hesitated, flushing up. "Are you sure I shan't be in your way?"
"Quite."
"Then I should just love to."
She curled herself up in the chair before the fire, and there was silence in the room, broken only by the scratching of pens. Erica sat quiet and still, her dreamy gaze wandering from Duane to Kitty, and from Kitty to Duane, and in her soft dark eyes was the whole-hearted if childish hero-worship that is so common and natural between small schoolboys and girls and their seniors, the girls and boys who are at top of the school. Presently, the warmth from the fire making her drowsy, she dropped off to sleep, her head against the back of the chair.
"She's asleep," said Kitty softly, glancing up. "I thought she looked tired." She nibbled her pen-handle, then went on hesitatingly, "I say, Duane, I'm—I don't pretend to be very observant and all that, but it has struck me that the kid is—is worrying over something—has got something on her mind."
Duane did not look very much impressed. "What on earth should she have on her mind? Besides, there's her sister. It's her business to see if the kid's worried by anything."
"Well, I don't know much about Bertha," went on Kitty, hesitating. "To tell you the truth, I never did take to her much. But——"
"Oh, I'm not her great chum, either," interrupted Duane. "Still, I do happen to know that Bertha thinks the world of Erica and can be trusted to look after her as much as anybody. But I think the child gets bad attacks of homesickness, all the same. However, she'll grow out of that in time. All decent girls are happy enough at Easthampton."
Some inexplicable impulse prompted Kitty's next words:
"Are you?"
"Do you mean to infer that I'm not decent?" said Duane dryly.
Kitty flushed crimson.
"You know I didn't mean that."
"No, I didn't. I thought perhaps you were still thinking of the Richoter," returned Duane calmly.
"Well, I wasn't," said Kitty bluntly. "I was merely asking a straightforward question. I'm afraid I'm not used to playing about with words, and I'm not clever at it like you."
"It comes in handy sometimes," murmured Duane.
"Yes, I suppose it does, when you don't want to give a straightforward answer to a straightforward question," retorted Kitty.
"Or when you don't want to tell the truth," added Duane, with laughter in her eyes. "Hallo, there goes the junior bell." She laid her hand on Erica's shoulder, and shook her gently. Erica opened her eyes and blinked drowsily.
"Your bell has gone, kiddie," said Duane. "I tell you what. I'm going to carry you upstairs to bed and send Bertha along with a glass of hot milk. You'll sleep like a top after that."
"But—I'm much too heavy," protested Erica, as the head prefect stooped and lifted her out of the chair in her strong young arms.
Duane laughed contemptuously.
"Oh, I'm pretty strong, in spite of my frail appearance."
She turned at the doorway, evidently holding with ease the younger girl, whose fair silky hair formed a striking contrast to her own dark colouring, and glanced across at Kitty, saying flippantly:
"Don't look too despondent, Kitty. Cheer yourself up with the thought that you won't have to listen to my gifted conversation much longer. Hilary returns to-morrow evening. She'll tell you plenty of home truths if you want straightforward answers. Sorry it's not in my line."
When she had disappeared Kitty put down her pen and stretched herself, then gazed round the little room. It would seem quite strange to be back again in her own study. She really had got quite used to the company of France and Duane, and their somewhat unusual little ways. In fact, Kitty was rather troubled and uneasy when she discovered that not only had she got used to the present arrangement, but that she did not look forward at all to going back to the old one.
"Of course that's only because changing about is rather upsetting," she reproved herself. "Francie's a dear in many ways, but you don't really want to stay on here with Duane, of all girls." Why, she had nearly provoked a squabble that very evening! Kitty felt she had not yet recovered her equanimity from the little passage of arms.
* * * * * *
"Oh, dash!" Kitty surveyed her bicycle gloomily.
"What's up?" Duane, her foot on her pedal ready to mount, paused and looked back.
"My back tyre's down as flat as a pancake."
"A puncture?"
"'Fraid so," replied Kitty gloomily. "I'll see if I can pump it up, though."
A brief examination proved the fact beyond a doubt. Kitty looked at Duane. The two had been the last to leave the farmhouse—where the cycling party had had tea—and were the only girls left behind, the others having ridden on a minute or two before Kitty's discovery.
"You ride on and overtake the others," she said. "I'll mend the puncture and come on afterwards. If I scorch I might catch you up some time. Only it won't be long before it gets dark."
"Oh, I'll lend a hand," said Duane good-naturedly. "I've got my lamps. Besides, Miss Carslake wouldn't like one of us to be left alone."
"As to that, I'm quite capable of looking after myself," returned the Australian girl rather impatiently. "But it's good of you to stay, though, and keep me company."
The two girls were accustomed to mending their own punctures. They had some difficulty at first in locating this one, but with the aid of a bucket of water borrowed from the obliging farm people, found it and patched it up.
"That's done at last!" exclaimed Kitty with a sigh of relief, as she unscrewed her pump. "Now we can get on. Hallo, who on earth's this? Why," in great amazement, "it's Bertha! What on earth is she doing here?"
They hailed her, and in another minute Bertha had ridden up and jumped off her bicycle. They could see that she was in a state of great agitation.
"Is Erica with you?" she called out breathlessly.
"Erica? No, she's with the others, I expect," answered Kitty quickly. "They went on ahead some time ago. Didn't you pass them?"
"Yes. She wasn't with them. They told me she was behind with you. I wasn't sure of it, but I just said nothing and came on to find you."
"But what are you doing here, Bertha?" asked Duane, for Bertha had not been one of the members of the cycling party.
"As you know," Bertha answered hurriedly, "I went over to Sheerston's this afternoon. When I came back I found Erica had left this note behind for me, and I can tell you it nearly knocked me over when I read it. I borrowed a bike from one of the girls and came on as fast as I could, hoping to get here before you left." She had pulled an envelope from her pocket as she spoke, and handed it over to Duane. The head prefect read it through quickly and silently. Her face was grave when she handed it back.
"Great Scott! So that's why she was so anxious to come on the cycling expedition, is it? Poor little kid! But why on earth should she choose this way in which to run away from school?"
"I knew she was unhappy," replied Bertha, in a curiously hard tone. "She's been miserable ever since she's been back. I don't know what made her make up her mind, but she told me she wished she could run away home. I told her not to be silly and that I shouldn't hear of such a thing. I meant to see she didn't get any pretext for permission to go into town. Then, as she says here, one of the weekly boarders told her she knew this part of the country, and you were going not far from her home, at Frattenton, and Frattenton's on the main line forourhome—no changing."
"Where exactly is this place, Frattenton?" asked Duane quickly.
"The other side of the downs—four or five miles away. The road to it runs right over the downs."
"And it's the nearest railway station from here?"
"Yes."
During the couple of minutes taken by this hurried conversation, Kitty had stood silent, listening, not knowing what was really the matter, but gathering that it was something serious.
Neither offered to show her the note; she realized that there was some mystery about it that Duane and Bertha both knew all about, but that they did not wish to share with anyone else. She did not ask any questions, but waited to see what would be required of her.
Duane turned to her.
"Erica's gone," she explained. "She's run away home. She's slipped off across the downs to Frattenton, to the railway station there."
Kitty nodded.
"What's to be done?" she said curtly. "I don't like the look of those downs. There's a heavy mist coming on and it's already getting dark."
"Let's hope she's there by now then," said Duane. "Look here, two of us had better ride after her, and the third one return to school and let Prinny know what's up."
"Who's to go back?" asked Bertha.
"You had better," answered Duane, speaking in decisive tones for once. "You're done up already with scorching so hard, I can see, and you've got no lamps. Kitty and I are fresh. That is to say, if Kitty doesn't mind a tiring ride now."
"I'm on," said Kitty briefly.
"Then we'll make a start. Cheer up, Bertha. We'll see she's safe somewhere or other and find out what's happened to her, all right."
"I know you will." Bertha tried to muster up a smile as she turned her bike round. "You're a sport if ever there was one, Duane."
The next instant she had disappeared round the bend, and Duane and Kitty were left alone again, this time with a feeling of responsibility resting heavily upon them.
"Better just ask about the road, at the farm," suggested Kitty sensibly. "We neither of us know it."
A few brief questions elucidated the information that the road wound over the downs to Frattenton, that it was a lonely road, but that there were few turnings of any importance, and then one had to keep to the left. The two girls mounted and sped off, determined to cover the greater part of the way before darkness settled down.
The first mile was a long drag uphill, but the girls struggled gamely on. Presently, to their relief, they found themselves on high but fairly level ground, and were too hot with their exertions to feel the chill, penetrating damp that was settling upon everything. They made short work of the next couple of miles.
Up till now they had met no sign of habitation. Here, however, at the corner of a cross-road, was a small, thatched cottage. The place looked deserted, but remembering the directions given them, they held on to the left. The road dropped down into a little hollow. Here they came across another house, a square, stone farm-house this time, with three or four children and a couple of dogs playing about in the roadway.
They dismounted and inquired of the eldest child if she had seen a girl of about her own age, riding a bicycle, pass by within the last half-hour. The girl shook her head, and on being questioned declared that they had been playing in the road for quite a long time, but that she had seen no one pass except Farmer Wootten's wagon. The smaller children said the same.
Duane looked at Kitty rather perplexedly.
"Funny they should have missed her. She can't have passed here very long ago."
The girls mounted again, but had not gone very far—only round the next bend—when they came across a horse and cart and two road menders, just preparing to leave their work of laying down granite and start their return journey to Frattenton. Here the two cyclists were brought "up against it" very definitely, for both men stated positively and convincingly that no one had passed that way for the last hour save a man driving a farm wagon, for they had been working on the road all the time.
The two girls stood and looked at each other in dismayed silence.
Kitty thought rapidly.
"If shehascome this way, it must have been in the last half-hour. I remember seeing her leave the tea-table when the other girls did, and thought she was with them when they went to get their bikes. I wasn't more than twenty minutes mending that puncture, so that we weren't more than half-an-hour behind when we left. And we've most likely reduced that, for we've covered the ground quicker than she could, I bet."
"Then, if she has not passed here," Duane demanded, "where is she?"
"There's only one turning she could possibly have mistaken for the Frattenton road. You remember the one where that cottage was."
She turned to one of the men.
"Where does the road to the right, a little way back, go to?"
"That!" replied the man. "That don't lead to nowhere, miss. That be only a road fur th' farm carts. It ends in a sheep track across th' downs."
"And how far on is Frattenton?" inquired Duane.
"Barely two miles, miss."
"Well, if she has passed here she's there by now all right," remarked Kitty. "Only, supposing she's taken the wrong road and is wandering over the downs now? I know what downs are."
"We'd better make inquiries at the cottage," said Duane briefly.
So they hurriedly pedalled back to the little thatched cottage, and after some trouble succeeded in routing out an old woman with a sweet, quavering voice and some difficulty in hearing distinctly. However, when they had explained their errand, she was most eager and voluble in giving them information.
Why yes, to be sure, a little lady on a bicycle had come to the door, maybe half an hour back, and asked if she were on the right road to Frattenton. The kindly old soul had invited her in to rest a minute by the fire and have a glass of milk, "for she had looked so tired-like, and 'twas a long pull along the Frattenton road." The offer had evidently been too much for Erica to resist, for she had left her bicycle outside and gone in.
"And how long has she been gone?" interrupted Duane quickly.
"A matter o' ten minutes or perhaps a quarter of an hour, I should say, miss," quavered the old lady.
"And did you see which road she took?"
"Why no, miss. I didn't go down to th' gate wi' she. You see, my rheumatics is that bad——"
But Kitty and Duane, with a hurried thanks, were already outside the door and running down to their bikes.
"Just missed her at the turn here, then," said Duane. "Jove, but it's getting thick!"
"Better light up," said Kitty quietly, and they lit their lamps with fingers that trembled with impatience.
"What luck for us those road-menders were there," said Kitty as they pedalled forward. "Or else we should have been nearly in Frattenton by now. Bother it, it's uphill again!"
"And getting jolly rough too," added Duane, as she bumped violently over a big stone.
The road was certainly getting rough. Presently great ruts appeared in it and the two cyclists had to go very warily. To add to their difficulties a thick, chill mist was settling over the downs in addition to the falling darkness. Soon it would be impossible to see many yards ahead, even with their lamps.
"One thing," observed Kitty, "if our progress is slow, so is Erica's. She can't be very far ahead. In fact, I wonder she hasn't turned back by now, realizing that this can't be the main road."
"I wonder if she has any lamps," said Duane uneasily.
The next minute her front wheel ran into a rut; the bicycle skidded sharply and threw her off.
Kitty dismounted. "Hurt?" she inquired.
"Oh no," replied Duane with a laugh. "Came off on my feet all right. But I guess we'd better walk, and wheel our bikes. It'll be just as quick in this awful mist and darkness."
The two girls pressed forward with dogged courage. They were neither of them timid or nervous, each had confidence in the other, and no doubt, but for the anxiety of Erica's safety, would have enjoyed it as a "real adventure."
"Hallo! What's this?" Kitty came to an abrupt halt.
"Erica's bike. She's left it by the roadside and gone forward on foot. There's her front lamp on it, unlit—but perhaps she had no matches," a surmise they afterwards found out to be fact.
"We'd better leave ours here too. They're more nuisance than use now we can't ride them. We can take the front lamps with us."
So they propped their bicycles by the side of the road, which was now little more than a track. The dense mist had settled down thicker than ever, so that they could hardly make out the ground at their feet, and the lamps only seemed to light up and reveal a few yards of greyish vapour. It all felt very weird and mysterious.
To go on now had become a matter of real danger. But Erica was somewhere ahead, in the darkness, alone, and to go back was impossible.
The two girls shouted and halloed at the top of their voices, but the mist only returned the echoes of their own cries.
"Coming on?" asked Duane curtly.
"Of course," returned Kitty as briefly.
"We must keep to the track though. Won't do to get lost ourselves."
They stumbled forward again, neither of them daring to voice their secret fear that Erica, frightened and lonely and without a light, had wandered off the track when the mist and the darkness had descended so quickly, and was lost on the downs. Such a possibility made them both shiver. They stopped at brief intervals and shouted, Kitty raising piercing calls of "Coo-ee!" and then listening intently, but with no result.
It would be hard to say how far they had gone—their only guide was the track, which they dared not leave and which they followed mainly by the feel of it beneath their feet—when at last Kitty's sharp ears caught a faint, answering call. They advanced, shouting again, and again came the faint answer from the darkness.
Kitty halted. "It's from our left somewhere, not ahead. Come on."
They turned to their left and by the light of their lamps advanced cautiously over the down turf, guided by the voice. Before long, a dark mass loomed up with startling suddenness in the pale rays of their lamps. It was a shepherd's hut, and inside, crouched in a forlorn heap upon the hard, bare floor, they found the runaway.
"Crouched in a forlorn heap upon the floor, they found the runaway.""Crouched in a forlorn heap upon the floor, they found the runaway."
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come. I'm so c-cold and t-tired."
"However did you find this place?" asked Kitty, peering around.
"You see, the road got so rough," Erica replied in a tired voice. "I left my bike and walked, and then I knew I must have taken the wrong road; but I was so tired, I didn't want to go all the way back. I thought perhaps it would lead to some houses or a village if I kept on. But it got so dark and I was frightened. I couldn't see my way and then I was wandering about and I ran right into this hut. Oh, I wish I was home. I heard you calling at last, but there's a big blister on my heel, and I—I c-can't walk any more."
The child was worn out and exhausted; moreover, she was shaking with cold. Duane slipped off her heavy coat with its big fur collar and cuffs. "Just put this on a minute," she said, "and it'll warm you, for I was simply boiling after the rate we've pounded along to catch you up."
She glanced at Kitty, who was investigating their little shelter by the light of a lamp. The place had evidently been quite recently inhabited, for it was in excellent repair and as dry as a bone. On the other hand, it was quite bare, consisting of absolutely nothing but walls, roof and door. True, there was a fireplace, but as Kitty remarked, it was no good without any fuel, and of fuel, wet or dry, there was not a stick to be had anywhere, and they had no implements with which they could break away any of the boarding of the hut.
"If we could only get a fire," sighed Kitty wistfully, "we'd stay here the night. It would be quite jolly. But we should simply freeze otherwise. I'm sure it'll freeze if it gets much colder."
Duane went to the door and peered out. The mist was covering everything with icy drops of water, and it was densely black everywhere. She drew back with a shiver.
"I say, Kitty, do you think we should find the track again? Then, of course, we could get back to the Frattenton road. We could carry the kid between us."
"The point is," replied Kitty, somewhat grimly, "that if we risked the chance of finding the track and failed, ten chances to one if we should be able to find the hut again. In that case we should be wandering about the downs in this icy mist, and Erica, for one, isn't in a fit condition to do much wandering. On the other hand, if we stay here for the night,"—she looked at Duane with a faint smile—"I've no doubt we shall need all our courage if we are going to stick it."