ully.

Damages repaired and the kettle at length filled and singing merrily,
the gay little gathering took slight note of time, but soon after four
bells struck in the tower clock, Mrs. Harold began to "round up" her
masculine guests, for she had no notion of their being late for
formation.

"Take your places in the 'firing line!'" she ordered.

"Oh, there's loads of time, Little Mother!" came in protest from Jean
Paul.

"Time to burn," from Dick Allyn, who found Stella mighty entertaining.

"Now, Little Mother, you're not going to be so hard-hearted as to turn
us out early tonight! Why, it's weeks since we've had the girls here,"
wheedled Durand.

"Can't help it. Out you all go! There's too much at stake just now to
risk any demerits."

"At stake? What's at stake, Little Mother?" were the eager questions.

"Can't tell you a single thing now. I'm tongue-tied until Captain
Stewart passes the word."

"Oh, what is it? Please come across with it, Little Mother. When may we
know," begged Ralph.

"At formation tonight perhaps. No use teasing! Join the firing line!"
and with the command of a general Mrs. Harold shooed her brood out into
the corridor, where overcoats and caps hung. They were used to these
sudden dismissals, and so were Polly and Peggy, who were too familiar
with all that which must be crowded into a limited amount of time not to
appreciate what it meant to have "the decks cleared" when necessary. But
Rosalie, Natalie, Juno, Marjorie, Stella and the other girls accepted
the new order of things with divers emotions. Rosalie giggled, Natalie's
face expressed wonder. Juno's was just a shade critical, Marjorie and
Stella smiled.

"Gee, if we obeyed all orders with as good grace as we obey the Little
Mother's what models we'd be," was Jean Paul's jerky comment as he
struggled into an overcoat, his eyes still fixed upon Rosalie's winsome
face.

Meanwhile, Doug Porter was clawing about among the coats to find his
own, but happening to glance at Jean Paul, shouted:

"Well, I'll be hanged! Say, how is it to get out of my coat, Bantam?"

True enough, the garment into which the wee man was wriggling trailed
upon the carpet, but Jean Paul was in a realm where overcoats 'never
were or e'er had been.'

At six-fifteen the lingering good-byes had been said and Mrs. Harold had
dismissed those who constituted the "firing line," the name having been
bestowed by Wheedles when he first witnessed the promptitude w