Half a Dozen Girls | Page 9

with Jean Dwight. In this way the V was formed; and
though the closest intimacy was between Molly and Polly, the four girls
were firm friends, and there were few days when they were not to be
found together, usually either at the Hapgood house, or at Polly's,
where their visit was never quite satisfactory unless Mrs. Adams was in
the midst of the group. Alan, too, was often with them, for a tendency
to rheumatism, which occasionally developed into a severe attack of the
disease, kept him in rather delicate health, and prevented his entering
into the athletic sports which are the usual amusement for lads of his
age. But though he was thus, of necessity, thrown much with his sister
and her girl friends, Alan was far from belonging to that uninteresting
species of humanity, the girl-boy; instead of that, he was a genuine,
rollicking boy, with never a trace of the prig about him.
"Well, what was it you wanted of me?" Alan asked, as soon as his head
reached the level of the attic floor.
"We didn't want you; you came," retorted Molly, with the frankness of
a sister.
"No such thing; you called me,--at least, Polly did." And Alan marched
across the floor to seat himself beside his champion, sure that there he
would find a welcome.
He was not mistaken, for Polly remarked protectingly,--
"I did call you, Alan, for we want to have some fun, this horrid day,
and we need you to stir us up."
"All right; how shall I go to work?" inquired Alan cheerfully. "Shall I
dance a breakdown, or will you play tag?"
"Let's play hide-and-seek," suggested Jean; "it's so nice and dark up
here, to-day."
"Wait a minute," interposed Florence. "Alan, we may as well tell you
now: Jean is going to write a play for us to act, and you are going to be

John Smith and have your head cut off."
"The mischief, I am!" with a prolonged whistle of surprise and disgust.
"It strikes me I have something to say about what shall be done with
my head."
"Stop using such dreadful expressions, Alan," said Molly primly. "You
know mamma doesn't like to hear you say 'the mischief.'"
"Well, she didn't, 'cause she isn't here," returned Alan, in nowise
abashed by his reproof. "And I don't believe she'd like to hear you girls
planning to cut my head off, either."
"Oh, Alan, you goose!" said Polly. "John Smith's head wasn't cut off,
for Pocahontas saved him, you know. All you'll have to do will be to lie
down with your head on a stone, and have one of us girls get ready to
hit you with a club."
"If you girls are going to manage the club," remarked the boy, with
masculine scorn, "I'd much rather have you try to hit me, for then I'd be
safe."
"That's a very old joke, Alan," said Jean, with disgust; "and besides, it
isn't polite. You ought to be proud to be asked to have a part in our
grand play."
"Will you act, or won't you?" demanded Polly sternly, as she seized
him by his short, thick hair.
"Oh, anything to get peace," groaned Alan.
"Say yes, then."
"Yes."
"Very well. Now, you are to be ready whenever we want you; you are
to do just what we want, and do it in just the way we want. Do you
promise?"

"Yes, yes! But do hurry up and play something, or it will be dark before
you begin."
"There!" said Polly, nodding triumphantly to the girls as she released
him. "Didn't I tell you I'd get him to act?"
"You couldn't bribe him to keep out of it," said Jean, as they sprang up
for their game.
The old attic was a favorite meeting-place for the V, who held high
carnival there, now racing up and down the great floor and hiding in
dark corners behind aged chests and spinning-wheels, now robing
themselves in the time-honored garments which had done duty for
various ancestors of the Hapgood family, and exchanging visits of
mock ceremony, or inviting Mrs. Hapgood up to witness a remarkable
tableau or an impromptu charade. Piles of illustrated papers filled one
corner, and, when all else failed, the children used to pore over the
sensational pictures of the Civil War, dwelling with an especial interest
on the scenes of death and carnage. In another corner was arranged a
long row of old andirons, warming-pans, and candlesticks, flanked by
an ancient wooden cradle with a projecting cover above the head. Rows
of dilapidated chairs there were, of every date and every degree of
shabbiness,--those old friends which start in the parlor and slowly
descend in rank, first to the sitting-room or library, then up-stairs, and
so, by