An Australian Lassie Part 1

An Australian La.s.sie.

by Lilian Turner.

CHAPTER I

WYGATE SCHOOL

"Emily Underwood, 19; Stanley Smith, 20; Cyril Bruce, 21; Nellie Underwood, 22; Elizabeth Bruce, 23--bottom of the cla.s.s!"

Mr. Sharman took off his eyegla.s.ses, rubbed them, and put them on again.

Then he looked very hard at the little girl at the end of the furthest form, who was hanging her head and industriously biting a slate pencil.

"Stand up, Elizabeth Bruce. Put down your pencil and fold your hands behind you."

Elizabeth did as she was told instantly. Her rosy face looked anxiously into the master's stern one.

"Yesterday morning," the master said, "you were head of the cla.s.s. This morning I find your name at the end of the list. How was that?"

Elizabeth hung her head again, and her dimpled chin hid itself behind the needlework of her pinafore.

A small girl, a few seats higher, held up her hand and waved it impatiently.

"Well?" asked the master.

"Please sir, she was promptin' Cyril Bruce."

"Silence!" thundered the master sternly. Then his gaze went back to the bent head of the little culprit.

"Stand upon the form," he said, "and tell me in a clear voice how it is you went down twenty-two places in one afternoon."

The rosiness left the little girl's face. She raised her head, and her brown eyes looked pleadingly into the master's, her white face besought him, for one second. Then she scrambled up to the form by the aid of the desk in front of her.

Down the room near the master's desk stood a new boy, an awkward looking figure of twelve years old or so, waiting to be given a place in the cla.s.s. Elizabeth knew that her disgrace was meant as a solemn warning to him. So she tossed back the short dark curls that hardly reached her neck, and looking angrily at him, said--

"I was top and I pulled Nelly Martin's hair, and was sent down three.

Then I was fourth, and my pencil squeaked my slate and I was sent down six. Then Cyril had to spell 'giraffe,' and I said 'one r and two f's,'

and she sent me to the bottom."

All of this speech was directed to the new boy who stood on one leg and grew red. It was an immense relief to him when the master rapped the front desk with his cane and said--

"Look at me, miss. Whom do you mean by 'she'?"

At the end of the room a sharp visaged lady of forty-five was watching the proceedings of the first cla.s.s from over the heads of a row of small students who comprised the "Babies' Cla.s.s."

"D-o, do; g-o, go," she said mechanically, and looked anxiously from little Elizabeth to her stern son, the master of Wygate School.

Elizabeth jerked her head, "Mrs. Sharman," she said.

"Sit down and fold your hands behind you," ordered the master. He turned to the new boy. "John Brown," he said, "go and take your seat next to Elizabeth Bruce--but one above her."

The new boy moved across the room, red-faced and clumsy in every movement. When he found himself in front of the cla.s.s he grew still redder, and hung hesitatingly upon the step that led to the platform upon which the form was placed.

Elizabeth looked at him disdainfully and drew her dress close around her.

"Sit down, you silly," she said in a sharp whisper, and indicated with a little head toss the seat above her.

John Brown slunk past her and dropped heavily into his seat. The master retired to his desk and made an entry or two in his long blue book while silence hung over the schoolroom.

In Elizabeth's heart a flame of anger was spreading. That this boy, this new boy, should be placed above her, was in her eyes the greatest injustice. A small voice within told her that she had been punished sufficiently yesterday afternoon.

Her head moved slightly in the direction of the new boy and her rosy lips opened.

"You cheat!" she whispered.

The boy sat motionless and the anger burned hotter in Elizabeth's heart.

"Cheaty, cheaty; go home and tell your mother!" she said in a sing-song way.

Still Brown did not move.

Elizabeth slid her hand along the seat and gave him a sharp pinch, and he started uneasily.

"Stand up the boy or girl who was speaking," ordered the master, without looking up.

A small fair-haired fair-complexioned boy, two seats above Elizabeth, flushed. His name was Cyril Bruce and he was Elizabeth's twin brother--twelve years old.

"I was only talking to myself--that's not speaking," he murmured.

Elizabeth rose slowly to her feet and stood working a corner of her pinafore into a knot. The master looked around, and his brow grew dark when he saw the small offender.

"Repeat aloud what you said, Elizabeth Bruce," he ordered.

The little girl grew white, then red, then white again, and went on twisting her pinafore.

"Do you hear me?" shouted the master. "Stand upon the form and repeat your words."

Once again Elizabeth clambered into a higher position.

"I said--I said, 'Cheaty, cheaty; go home and tell your mother,'" she said in a clear voice that sounded all over the room.

A shocked expression pa.s.sed over the face of the cla.s.s.

"To whom were you addressing yourself?" asked the master.

"The new boy," said the little girl.

"Sit down, and stay in the dinner-hour and write out the sentence fifty times."