LITMIR.BIZ

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instead of answering his scientific posers, Frances sat looking at him with a kind of awed reverence that made more than one girl nudge another and then stifle a giggle.

      It was finally Joan Dawson who brought the matter to a head when the class was over on the Monday afternoon. She, Frances, and Tiny Mather were strolling out of the School House into the warmth of the sunlit quadrangle.

      “I suppose,” Joan said, “that it’s your weakness for brainy young men that makes you go cow-eyed when you see Whittaker?”

      “I think he’s just marvellous,” Frances said simply. Joan and Beryl glanced at each other.

      “But he’s got round shoulders!” Beryl protested.

      “Ah, but his mind!” Frances said dreamily.

      “Well—er—would you like to tell him so?” Joan asked drily. “Here he is now—approaching. Looks as though he’s going out.”

      “Hey, Frances, just a minute!”

      She turned at the sharp command and saw that Vera Randal, Molly Webster, and Cynthia Vane were hurrying towards them. In a moment or two they had caught up.

      “Well?” Frances asked calmly. “What is it, head girl?”

      “Don’t try and be funny with me! I want to know if you have the nerve to decide our differences right away? There is only room for one head girl, and the issue’s in doubt. If I am the head girl, you have got to obey me. If you can defeat me, you can take my place and I obey you.”

      Frances raised her eyebrows. “Sounds quite primitive—like apes fighting for the kingship. Well, what am I to do? Knock the confounded stuffing out of you?”

      “You’re welcome to try,” Vera sneered. “I’ve a suggestion to make. We’ve got an hour before tea. Come out to Bollin’s Wood and bring your two pals here as your seconds—and I’ll bring Molly and Cynthia as mine. We’ll thrash it out. If you can get me on my back and keep my arms pinned to the ground while ten is counted I’ll admit you’re the new head girl—”

      As Frances reflected, Clive Whittaker came past. He nodded and smiled.

      “Lovely day, sir,” Frances smiled.

      “Delightful,” he agreed, and it seemed to the other girls that he gave her an odd look. “Just on my way to do some shopping in our thriving village.… And you girls take care you don’t start damaging each other,” he added. “I heard what you said, Randal—and it sounded most aggressive. After all, this is a school for young ladies.…”

      Then he was on his way again towards the school gates, leaving Frances looking after him.

      “When you’ve quite finished mooning, what about it?” Vera demanded.

      “It’s the accepted idea,” Joan said quickly, as Frances gave her a look of inquiry. “I really think you ought to do it!”

      “All right,” Frances shrugged. “Let’s be off!”

      With that she linked her arms through those of Joan and Beryl and led the way to the gates, followed at a distance by the hefty Vera and her two stooges. A ten-minute walk down the lane brought them to the stile leading into Bollin’s Wood—a deep mass of shady undergrowth at this time of year, the ground a solid carpet of ferns, long rank grass, and twisting brambles.

      The girls went on until they were well within the wood’s depths, then in a little clearing, just within sight of the River Bollin, Vera called a halt, motioned her two friends on one side.

      “Now,” she breathed venomously, “it’s my turn! I’m not going to fight you, Frances, because I can’t do jujitsu like you can. That wouldn’t be fair play—but I’m going to make you smart for the way you’ve treated me! Right!” she broke off suddenly. “On her!”

      Utterly unprepared for an onrush by three at once, Frances went crashing over to the ground with the girls on top of her. Joan and Beryl rushed to her assistance immediately, but they could do very little, particularly against Vera. In perhaps thirty seconds Frances was stretched out flat, her shoes taken off, her ankles corded together and her hands tied behind her. For good measure a gag was added and tied tightly in her mouth. Three to two was more than they could handle, especially against a heavyweight like Vera. They, too, lost their shoes and found themselves bound and gagged in double quick time.

      “There!” Vera breathed, standing up and taking the three pairs of shoes Molly Webster had collected. “This is going to be Lesson One! You can get from here to the lane without shoes, and I hope you enjoy it! You’ll find your shoes by the stile, and if none of you are too good on your feet for the next week, we’ll quite understand. The gags are so you can’t yell for help, like the rotten little cowards all of you are.… All right, girls, come on!”

      Molly and Cynthia nodded and followed their leader out of the clearing. As Vera had promised, she put the shoes by the stile, then she and her two consorts went across to the sunny grass bank on the other side of the lane. They sat down with a certain air of resolve, prepared to watch the fun.

      Ten minutes passed and the wood remained quiet. The three looked at each other in vague surprise, shifted their positions, then relaxed and waited again.

      “Even if they take all night we’re not going in after them,” Vera stated flatly. “They might spring a trap and do the same to us. I wouldn’t put anything past Frances—”

      “Taking a long while, anyway,” Cynthia Vane said. “I’m not going to get much fun out of this if they don’t hurry up! ’Sides, I want my tea.”

      “Tea can wait for a treat like this,” Molly Webster said, leaning back on the grass.

      So another twenty minutes passed without anything happening.

      “I suppose,” Cynthia said doubtfully, “we shouldn’t—?”

      “No!” Vera retorted. “And shut up!”

      But even Vera began to become uneasy when a full hour and a half had gone by and the girls had not appeared. At the most Vera had reckoned her painful idea of a joke would not take more than thirty minutes.…

      “Oh, confound them!” she said at last, getting to her feet impatiently. “They must have gone the other way without their shoes, or something, just to spite us. We’d better look. Come on.”

      She led the way across the lane, over the stile, then re-entered the wood warily. The shoes were still there by the stile, as they had been throughout the full period. In the wood itself there was dead silence, save for the rustling of the leaves in the wind. The chill of evening was on it now, too.

      “Gently,” Vera cautioned, as the others caught up with her. “Be ready for anything—”

      But nothing untoward occurred. Until finally they came through the last bushes surrounding the little clearing— They stopped dead, paralysed at the sight that had burst upon them. Sheer horror absolutely held them rigid. They wanted to run, to scream, to cry out—but they couldn’t do any of these things. They could only go staring and feel their mouths get dry and their faces hot.

      Lying flat on the ground, obviously unconscious, were Joan Dawson and Beryl Mather, still bound and gagged as before. This in itself was unexpected and unpleasant enough—but the worst sight of all was of Frances Hasleigh hanging from the lowest branch of a nearby tree, her hands still corded behind her and her feet a good six inches from the ground. She even swayed gently in the wind, a terrible puppet at the end of a rope.

      “Oh!” Vera gulped, perspiration standing out in big drops on her colourless face. “Oh, God, she’s— She’s been hung!” she screamed abruptly. “Quick—get out of here—!”

      Her own blind panic was as nothing compared to Molly’s and Cynthia’s. They swung round and raced for their lives back to the lane, tripping and falling as they went, blundering out at last over the stile.… Here, after a moment or two of stormy breathing, they

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