He looked at her as if he had found something about her he hadn't noticed before.

"Who put that idea into your head?--Mamie?"

She shook her head indignantly.

"Grant Stowe?"

"n.o.body, thank you, I guess I have a mind of my own."

"New teacher start in by giving you a lecture on deportment?"

Chicken Little stamped her foot. "You're perfectful hateful--and I sha'n't walk another step with you!"

They were near the gate leading from the lane into the orchard and she suited the action to the word, by darting through it and running off under the trees.

Sherm looked after her a moment, undecided whether to stand on his dignity or to pursue. He had considered Jane a little girl--most of the time. Some way she was alluringly different to-day. He suddenly resolved that he would not be flouted in any such fashion. It took him about two minutes to catch up with Chicken Little and slip his arm through hers.

"No, you don't, Miss. You are going to sit down here under this tree and tell me exactly what's the matter!"

Chicken Little struggled rebelliously, but Sherm held her firmly.

"I can't--Mother told me to come straight home from school; she wanted me."

"Fibber! Your mother and Marian went over to Benton's this afternoon.

You needn't try to dodge--you and I are going to have this out right now. So you might as well be obliging and sit down comfortably."

"It wasn't anything to make such a fuss about."

"Then why are you making such a row?"

Chicken Little flung herself down upon the gra.s.s.

Sherm stretched his muscular length on the sward in front of her and began to chew a gra.s.s stem in a leisurely fashion while he watched her.

Chicken Little pulled a handful of long gra.s.ses and commenced plaiting them. Her hair was windblown and her face rose-flushed from her run. She declined to look at Sherm.

"Chicken Little--O Chicken Little, are you very mad? Chicken Little?"

Chicken Little kept her brown eyes fixed upon the pliant stems.

"Chicken Little," Sherm murmured softly, "you have the prettiest eyes of any girl I know."

Chicken Little caught the touch of malice in his tone and shot an indignant glance at him from the aforesaid eyes.

Sherm laughed delightedly. "Chicken Little, you don't need to tell me what's the matter with you--I know."

Chicken Little shot another indignant glance. "There isn't anything the matter except what I told you--of course, it wasn't anything really--only----"

"Yes, there is, Chicken Little, that was only a symptom."

"Stop your fooling."

"Don't you want me to tell you?"

"No!"

"Bet you do--honest, don't you?"

"I haven't the least curiosity--so you can just stop teasing." Jane was positively dignified.

"Well, I'm going to tell you, whether you want to hear it or not. You're growing up, Chicken Little, that's what's the matter with our little feelings. But don't forget you promised to give me part of Ernest's place this winter. It was a bargain, wasn't it?" Sherm reached over and took possession of her busy fingers. "Wasn't it? Chicken Little Jane, wasn't it?"

Jane looked at this new and astonishing Sherm and nodded shyly.

Sherm gathered up her books with a laugh. "Come on, your mother wants you."

"She does not--and I'm going to sit here till I make a gra.s.s basket for Jilly."

September and October slipped away quietly, their warm, hazy days gay with turning leaves and spicily fragrant with the drying vegetation and ripening fruits. Chicken Little found school under Mr. Clay unwontedly interesting. He departed from the regulation mixture of three parts study and one part recitation and tried to lead his pupils' thoughts out into the world a little. Indeed, some of his innovations were regarded with suspicion by certain fathers and mothers in the district. When he advised his advanced history cla.s.s to read historical novels and Shakespeare in connection with their work, there was much shaking of heads. But when he took advantage of the coming election to waken an interest in politics, the district board waited on him. If the visit of the school board silenced Mr. Clay, it did not discourage his charges, and partisanship ran high. The favorite method of boosting one's candidates being to write their names on the blackboard at recesses and noons, and then stand guard to prevent the opposing faction from erasing them.

The fun grew furious. The Mortons were staunch Republicans, and Chicken Little strove valiantly to write "Garfield and Arthur" earlier and oftener than the Democrats, led by Grant Stowe and Mamie Price, could replace them with "Hanc.o.c.k and English."

Grant was the biggest and strongest and bossiest lad in school. His favorite method of settling the enemy was to pick them up bodily and set them outside the schoolhouse door while he rubbed out their ticket. Or better still, to hold the door while Mamie or some other democrat turned the entire front board into a waving sea of "Hanc.o.c.ks and Englishes."

The Republicans were in the lead as to numbers, but they were mostly the younger children. But few of the older boys could be spared from the farm work to enter school so early in the fall. So Chicken Little captained her side, aided by quiet suggestions from Mr. Clay who did not wish to take sides openly.

Many were the ruses employed to capture the blackboards. Jane stayed one evening after school to have things ready for the morrow, but, alas, Grant Stowe was in the habit of waiting to walk a piece home with her.

He waited down the road till he grew suspicious, and, coming back, caught her in the act.

He took swift revenge, none too generously, by forcing her to erase every line, then rubbed it in by guiding her hand to make her write the names of the opposition candidates. Despite all Chicken Little's struggles, he persisted until the hated names were finished in writing that decidedly resembled crow tracks, but could be read by anyone having sufficient patience.

Chicken Little was furious but helpless. Mr. Clay had gone home early in order to drive into town that evening. Grant treated her anger as a good joke. She finally wrenched her hand loose and gave him a resounding smack across the cheek, that made her tormentor's face tingle.

It was Grant's turn to be vexed now. He caught her arm and twisted it till she winced. "Say you're sorry!"

"I won't!"

Grant turned the supple wrist a twist farther. "Now, will you?"

"No sir, not if you twist till you break it--I won't! I'm not going to be bullied!"

Grant began to be afraid she meant what she said. But his pride would not let him give in to a girl. "All right, little stubborn, I'll kiss you till you do."

As Grant loosened his hold on her wrist, Jane jerked away and fled toward the door in a panic. She was more than half afraid of Grant in this humor--and then her promise to Ernest.

"Oh, dear, I knew better than to do that, but he made me so mad!" she mourned.