“Say your prayers, say your prayers!” chanted another of the group, seconded by moans and groans.  They were waiting like prisoners jammed into the gym lobby, and a guard of sophs patrolled the entrance.

Noticeable in the assemblage was little Sarah Howland-noticeable because she sat on a window sill all alone and dangled her feet contentedly.  She actually appeared to be enjoying the prospect of being “roughed.”  Shirley was noisy as usual, and for once her raillery seemed appropriate.  The more timid girls had taken shelter about her, as if expecting she would easily and even gaily vanquish the attacking foe.

Friends had the strong girl now if never before, and she fairly expanded under the compliment.  She would show the sophs what country training did for a girl in the way of self-protection, and a few stories of real or fancied battles at High School (no town mentioned) also served to thrill her audience until Shirley came near being popular for the once.

“Of course we shall have to do foolish things,” mused Eleanor Meed, “but I won’t mind as long as I am not forced to eat something I hate or drink vinegar—­”

“Don’t worry on that score,” spoke up Marie Coeyman.  “Nothing like that is apt to be attempted.  I heard some of the sophs say—­”

“Because they knew you were listening,” discerned another.  “Don’t take any stock in what you overheard.  They are apt to do directly contrary to loudly whispered plans.”

“But whatever it is to be, I do wish they would get at it and let’s have it over,” growled Shirley.  “It’s no fun being cooped up here—­”

“Hush, don’t let the guards hear you complaining,” cautioned Marie.  “It’s like a trial, you get more for contempt of court if you don’t accept your sentence gracefully.”

The shuffling of many feet along the stone walk put an end to further speculation.

“Here they come!  Here they come!” went a tremor through the crowd of candidates, and when the doors were thrown open a masked committee confronted them.

Orders, all kinds and volumes of them, poured in quickly as tag numbers could be singled out.  Some were taken in little groups of four “outside to cool off.”  Others were commanded to hop around in circles, while still more were given such individual commands as seemed most antagonistic to their particular propensities.

Shirley was still unmolested.  She stood bravely awaiting her turn, now and then flinging out a wild arm to make sure its muscles were in good shape for the fray.

Finally someone (we hope it was not Judith) called her number—­ sixty-eight, and she sprang to the chalk line with what is usually termed alacrity, but it really sounded much more ominous.

“Does your head hurt?” asked the voice, and Shirley nodded.  She thought that might be safest.

“What hit you?” went on the prosecutor.

“A hammer!” responded Shirley.