The children filed happily around the corner of the house, all talking at the same time, but their voices lowered as they passed out of vision. They held a whispered conversation as they passed the rickety fence, Launcelot expressing some iconoclastic sentiments in a husky undertone. They were still whispering as they entered the Canary yard, and edged mysteriously along the side of the house between the porch and the fence. "It'll be just like playing Horashuss," urged Launcelot. "But what would Miss Billy think?" asked Ginevra doubtfully. "You heard what she said. She'd think it was brave!" said Launcelot in his most lordly tones. "But s'pose some one would see?" quavered Ginevra. "Aw pshaw! They ain't no one a-goin' to see. And if they do, what then? Go in if you're afraid." Ginevra hesitated. "Miss Billy'd like it," went on the tempter. His sister flung prudence to the winds. "I'll help," she said. Holly Belle's voice rang out impatiently a second time: "Child-run, din-ner." "We'll be there in a minute," called Launcelot impatiently. "Now hurry up, kids. Take a-hold, here. No, not so near together. Now, I'm going to count. When I say three, you all pull like the dickens, and then run, lickety split. Get out of the way there, Mike." The children grasped the rotten palings. "One--two--three," counted Launcelot. The little army gave a mighty tug. The rotten wood splintered, split, yielded; the fence fell with a crash, and a sorry mass of decayed boards covered the yard. The children waited to see no more, but rushed about the house as though old Mr. Schultzsky himself was in their wake. Launcelot and Ginevra turned at the basement steps to help little Mike, who had fallen upon his face in the stampede. From his place of vantage Launcelot glanced around to see if they were being pursued. There was no one in sight, and all was still. "Now," said Launcelot boldly, "Miss Billy can have her berbarry haige." CHAPTER IX BEATRICE "And he who wins the fight with Self Has won the bravest battle." "GOOD-BYE, Miss Billy." "Good-bye, Beatitude. You're a dear to help me off in this way. I won't forget it in a hurry." "All rightie. See that you don't." "And Bea, don't vex your soul over that mending basket. It's only one stitch in nine that saves time, you know." "I won't, but you'd better make haste; you'll miss the boat." "A miss wouldn't be as good as a mile then, would it? Good-bye, again. Yes, mother, I _have_ a handkerchief. Also a corkscrew for the olives. Also my rubbers. Good-bye, everybody." Miss Billy was going to a picnic, and in her usual way. The whole house had been in an uproar since six o'clock. There had been a hurried dressing, a hurried breakfast, and a hurried packing of lunch; and it was not until the blue linen suit disappeared around the corner that a lull fell over the home, and the household paused to take breath.