he called early for his old chum, and accompanied
her and Patricia to school, showing only the merry, winsome side of
his nature, and making Polly proud to own him for a friend.

In the hallway the boys laid hold of him, and carried him off
upstairs, where a group of lads, with heads together, whispering and
snickering, surrounded one of the desks.

"What are they up to?" queried Patricia, watching them furtively.
"Vance Alden is reading something from a piece of paper--hear them
laugh!"

"Poetry, probably," guessed Polly. "He's the greatest boy for writing
poetry. He wrote his composition, one week, all in rhyme."

At recess the secret was soon made known. A long row of boys, arm in
arm, marched across the recitation room, singing this bit of
doggerel:--

"Ilga Barron,
The great fan_fa_ron,
Went into the closet one day;
But she was so stout
She couldn't get out,
And there she had to sta-ay!
And there she had to stay!"

Ilga and several other girls, who were drawing on the blackboard, had
stopped when the boys formed in line, to see what they were going to
do, and as the singing went on they stood as if dazed; but at the
last, fairly realizing the indignity, Ilga sprang forward, crimson
with anger.

"I didn't! I didn't!" she cried. "You mean, mean things!"

Instantly the line rounded into a circle, with the girl inside, and
the boys, bowing low, began:--

"Behold your escort home this noon!
And on the way we'll sing this tune,--

Ilga Barron,
The great fan_fa_ron,--"

They got no further, for the prisoner, with a dash and a scream, burst
her bars, and fled to the next room, followed by a laughing chorus
from her tormentors.

Polly was distressed.

"I should think you'd be ashamed," she declared, "to treat a girl in
that way!"

The boys grinned.

"She deserves it!" spoke up Floyd Bascom.

"Yes, look at her last night!" cried Prescott Saunders. "Never said a
word, and let you bear all the blame!"

"An' see the way she's been actin' to you all along!" put in Peter
Anderson.

"I know," returned Polly sadly; "but it isn't fair to sing that to
her."

"Why not? Why do you care?" It was Vance Alden that questioned. The
rest were still, awaiting Polly's answer.

"I'm sorry for her. I know how things hurt."

But the boys only laughed, and began again the taunting song. They
were resolved to have their fun.

"It is kind of mean, isn't