The Camp Fire Girls at School; Or, The Wohelo WeaversFrey, Hildegard G.
General
The Camp Fire Girls at School; Or, The Wohelo Weavers
Frey, Hildegard G.
Camp Fire Girls -- Juvenile fiction; Schools -- Fiction
"Have we a new electrician?" he inquired genially, as he saw her coming
out of the electric room. Hinpoha laughed at his pleasantry, but she was
flushed and uncomfortable from the excitement of the last moment.
Hinpoha was a poor dissembler. She went upstairs until the art room was
empty of visitors and then returned swiftly to the electric room for the
picture. She slipped it under her middy blouse, where it was safe from
detection, and sped upstairs with it. As she crossed the hall to the
stairs she met the same teacher the second time. "Well, you must be an
electrician," he said; "that's twice you've rushed out of there in such
a businesslike manner," Hinpoha laughed, but flushed painfully. It
seemed to her that his eyes could look right through her middy and see
the picture underneath. This time the coast was clear in the room where
the pictures were and she deposited the adventurous water color safely.
She heaved a great sigh of relief when she realized that the danger was
over and she had nothing more to conceal. She trudged home through the
snow light-heartedly, with a warm feeling that she had been the means of
saving a friend from disgrace.
Sahwah, who was in the play and had a right to go up on the stage, which
was all ready set for the first scene, ran in to see how things looked
late in the afternoon. The school was practically empty. All the rest of
the cast had gone home to get some sleep to fit them for the ordeal of
the coming performance, and the teachers who had been looking at the
paintings had also left. The rest of the building was in darkness, as
twilight had already fallen. One set of lights was burning on the stage.
Sahwah had no special business on the stage, she was simply curious to
see what it looked like. Sahwah never stopped to analyze her motives for
doing things. She paused to admire the statue of Joan of Arc, standing
in all the majesty of its nine-foot height. This was the first chance
she had had to examine it leisurely. In the rehearsal the night before
she had merely seen it in a general way as she whisked off and on the
stage in her part.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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