Johnny flinched. It was a species of blackmail, but what could he do? Suppose Lily told how she had hidden him--him, Johnny Trumbull, the champion of the school--in that empty baby-carriage! He would have more to contend against than Arnold Carruth with socks and curls. He did not think Lily would tell. Somehow Lily, although a little, befrilled girl, gave an impression of having a knowledge of a square deal almost as much as a boy would; but what boy could tell with a certainty what such an uncertain creature as a girl might or might not do? Moreover, Johnny had a weakness, a hidden, Spartanly hidden, weakness for Lily. He rather wished to have her act as partner in his great enterprise. He therefore gruffly assented.
“All right,” he said, “you can be in it. But just you look out. You'll see what happens if you tell.”
“She can't be in it; she's nothing but a girl,” said Arnold Carruth, fiercely.
Lily Jennings lifted her chin and surveyed him with queenly scorn. “And what are you?” said she. “A little boy with curls and baby socks.”
Arnold colored with shame and fury, and subsided. “Mind you don't tell,” he said, taking Johnny's cue.
“I sha'n't tell,” replied Lily, with majesty. “But you'll tell yourselves if you talk one side of trees without looking on the other.”
There was then only a few moments before Madame's musical Japanese gong which announced the close of intermission should sound, but three determined souls in conspiracy can accomplish much in a few moments. The first move was planned in detail before that gong sounded, and the two boys raced to the house, and Lily followed, carrying a toadstool, which she had hurriedly caught up from the lawn for her object of nature to be taken into class.
It was a poisonous toadstool, and Lily was quite a heroine in the class. That fact doubtless gave her a more dauntless air when, after school, the two boys caught up with her walking gracefully down the road, flirting her skirts and now and then giving her head a toss, which made her fluff of hair fly into a golden foam under her daisy-trimmed straw hat.
“To-night,” Johnny whispered, as he sped past.
“At half past nine, between your house and the Simmonses',” replied Lily, without even looking at him. She was a past-mistress of dissimulation.