"Margery Blair, you come right out of that pond!"

All the outraged conventionalities of an elder brother sounded in his voice and showed in the horrified expression of his face.

Margery did not question fate, but meekly obeyed. Slowly and reluctantly she made her way to sh.o.r.e. Henry was at the water's edge to hasten her landing. He reached out and dragged her in--no longer a defiant young Venus, but a very frightened little girl whose naughtiness had found her out. Henry pushed her roughly toward her pile of clothes with the succinct order, "Now dress."

He made a screen of his body between her and the five pairs of eyes that were bobbing about so exasperatingly on the water.

Behind the screen Margery shivered helplessly. "Ain't got nothin'

to wipe with," she sniffled.

Very carefully and deliberately, without exposing for an instant the form of his frail sister, Henry deposited on the ground his tin can of minnows, went through all his pockets, and finally pulled out a small, dirty handkerchief. As he handed this over his shoulder, the little boys in the water laughed.

"Say, Henry, will you lend me that towel when Margery's through with it?" asked Charley Burns facetiously.

"I'll punch your head when I ketch you. That's what I'll do to you."

Charley did not continue the subject.

Presumably the handkerchief served its purpose, for Margery's next words showed that dressing had progressed a bit.

"I can't get my stockin's on," she quavered.

"Pull 'em on," grunted the screen unfeelingly.

A few moments later there was similar trouble with the shoes, and Margery sent out a tearful announcement:

"They just won't go on."

"They got to," remarked the screen firmly.

"But I tell you they won't. They're my new ones and they won't go on without a shoe-horn."

"Stamp on 'em!" commanded Henry gruffly.

Behind the screen convulsive excitement followed, accompanied by a certain Jack-in-the-box effect which seemed highly to amuse the little boys in the water.

"That's right, Margery. Stamp on 'em!" they repeated derisively until cowed into silence by Henry's stony stare.

"I can't b.u.t.ton my dress," was Margery's final plaint.

"You got to."

"But I tell you I can't," she insisted, her voice rising to a long-drawn wail. "It b.u.t.tons behind."

With the utmost dignity the screen slowly turned itself around.

That was a signal for the small boys in the water to break forth into jeers and taunts. They spoke in that treble squeal which little boys use when they seek to imitate girls' voices.

"Say, Henry, please lend me your towel to wipe my ears."

"b.u.t.ton my dress, Henry."

"Where's your shoe-horn, Henry?"

Apparently Henry's calm remained unshaken. In reality he made a rather poor job of the b.u.t.toning. As soon as the back of the dress promised to hold together, he stopped. Then, firmly clutching Margery's arm in one hand and holding his seine and tin can of minnows in the other, he faced his waspish little tormentors.

The moment had come for him to speak. He did not hesitate. Had he been forty-five and bald, he could not have met the situation with more determined conventionality. He realized, plainly enough, that the family had been disgraced, and neither to herself nor to the world would he minimize or excuse Margery's culpability. Yet, nevertheless, he would do his best to hush up the scandal.

"See here, you kids," he began warningly. Both hands were occupied, so he could not emphasize his threat with the sight of a clenched fist. His tones, however, carried conviction. "If any of you's blab about this, I'll give you such a smashin'----"

Henry did not finish the sentence. There was no need to finish the sentence. When one's thought has been fully enough expressed, why go on further?

Henry paused a moment for the meaning to sink in. Then he started up the knoll, dragging Margery after him. Instantly the pond was in an uproar.

"Oh, Henry, can't guess who I seen in swimmin' this afternoon!"

"Comin' back to-morrow, ain't you, Margery?"

"Better slow up, Henry, or you'll drop your minnies."

"Say, Margery, your stockin's is comin' down."

Then Freddy Larkin started to chant at the top of his lungs:

Motheh, may I go out to thwim?

Yeth, my darlin' daughter; Hang your cloth' ...

Of course Margery knew that their wit was aimed at Henry, not at her. But she breathed freer, nevertheless, once out of ear-shot.

Henry dragged her homeward at a furious pace. He held her arm so tightly that it ached. The worst was that she couldn't make him argue about it. He simply held on without talking.

"You just let my arm go, Henry Blair," she whimpered again and again. "You ain't got any right to hurt me."

But Henry would only close his mouth more grimly and push on.

"Ain't you got any sense, Henry Blair? I ain't tryin' to run off."

She might just as well be talking to a post.

Even the threat, "If you don't let me go, I'll holler," fell on deaf ears.

This was said after they had reached the civilization of streets and houses, where their appearance caused a mild sensation. And small wonder. Margery's stockings were down in rolls about her ankles. Behind, her dress was gaping open where Henry had missed the b.u.t.tons. In places there were yellow stains where the wet of her body had soaked through. Her face was streaked with mud and her hair was drying in a stiff mat that hung down heavily over her eyes. The once gorgeous hair ribbon was little better than a lump of mud.

Several little girls on different porches called out in amazed curiosity, "Why, Margery, what _is_ the matter?" and a boy or two, staring hard, remarked, "h.e.l.lo, Henry. What you doin'?" For all the attention he paid, Henry might not have heard. With lips tightly closed, eyes looking straight ahead, he rushed on, never once relaxing hold of his miserable victim's arm.