“But you’ll be caught, sure as shootin’,” one of the girls objected. “In the first place you’ve got no uniform.” Naturally, Selina Jo expected to be discovered sooner or later; but she had prepared for this eventuality--as she thought. “Maybe we can fix that,” the other girl broke in eagerly. “There’s that old blouse of mine and your extra skirt. Gee! I wish we could put it over! Wouldn’t old Iron Jaw be wild?” Between them they rigged a uniform for Selina Jo. At the nightly inspection she crept under the bed. Later, she slept on a pallet. The fortunate indisposition of a girl across the hall solved the breakfast problem. Selina Jo, taking the vacant place in the formation, passed undiscovered for the moment. Among the many contingencies which she could not have provided against, though, were the sharp eyes and keen memory for faces possessed by Mary Shane, the matron in charge. As the girls were forming for certain duties shortly after breakfast, Selina Jo felt a heavy hand upon her shoulder. She looked up into the stern face of the matron. “What are you doing here?” was the curt inquiry. “Me?” Selina Jo’s attempt at surprise was ludicrous. “I--I b’long here, ma’am.” “You do? You ought to know me then. What is my name?” Instinct told the girl that this must be the matron. “Old Iron Jaw,” she answered unabashed. Mary Shane smiled grimly. “Come with me,” she ordered. She led the way, Selina Jo following meekly, to her little cubby-hole of an office. “Now, then,” the matron commanded sternly, “tell me the truth. How did you get in here?” “I--I clumb that fence.” “Why?” “Just ’cause, ma’am, I nacherly got to git re-formed,” was the perfectly serious answer. “I ralely b’long here. I’m so p’izen mean they ain’t no other place fitten fer me.” “What’s your name?” Now it came, not hesitantly, but proudly--even defiantly: “S’liny Jo Hudsill!” Mary Shane knitted her brows thoughtfully: “Hudsill?” “Yes’m. Them low-down, sneakin’, ornery Shoalwater River Hudsills, ma’am. Ever’body in the country knows ’bout ’em. They air the shif’lesses’ fambly that ever was borned. An’ what’s furdermore, I’m the hellraisin’es’ one o’ the intire gin’ration!” “What are you trying to tell me, child?” “Just how tarnation mean I am, ma’am.” In her plans for forcibly entering the reformatory, Selina Jo had hit upon the idea of charging herself, when her presence should be discovered, with an assortment of crimes sufficient to insure her incarceration for an indefinite period. It seemed to her now that the moment for her confession had arrived. “Last mont’, ma’am,” she continued earnestly. “I burned down three cow stalls. Right atter that I went inta my own blood uncle’s cornfiel’ an’ pulled up ever’ smidgin’s bit o’ his young corn--pulled it smack up by the roots, ma’am. Ner that ain’t all, not nigh all. I almost hate to tell you this’n, ma’am. But last week I stobbed a li’l nigger baby to death. Killed him dead. Dead as----”