The Crimson Sweater. Barbour Ralph Henry

his voice.

      This outburst was so unexpected and excruciating that Roy gave back before it. But as though satisfied with the dismay he had caused the parrot broke out into a shrill burst of laughter and waddled toward the girl, who had now transferred her attention to the rescued rabbit.

      "I – I didn't know he was in the box," stammered Roy.

      "No, I don't suppose you did," answered the girl grudgingly. "Boys are so stupid! You might have killed him! Come here, Methuselah, and tell me all about it. Did the wicked boy frighten you most to death? Did he? Well, he was a wicked thing, so he was."

      The parrot closed his beak carefully about one of her fingers and was lifted to her arm, where he sat in ruffled dignity and stared at Roy with malevolent gaze. The rescued rabbit lay meanwhile, a palpitating bunch of white, in the girl's other hand. Presently, having examined him carefully for damages and found none, she stepped to one of the boxes and deposited him on a litter of straw and cabbage leaves.

      "I've had such horrid luck with the babies," she said confidently, her indignation apparently forgotten. "There were three at first. Then one died of rheumatism – at least, I'm almost sure it was rheumatism, – and one was killed by a rat and now only poor little Angel is left. I call him Angel," she explained, turning to her audience, "because he is so white. Don't you think it is a very appropriate name?"

      Roy nodded silently. Like the parrot, he had had his temper a bit ruffled; the girl's remarks had not been especially complimentary. If she guessed his feelings she showed no signs of it. Instead,

      "You're a new boy, aren't you?" she asked.

      "Yes," answered Roy.

      "What's your name?"

      "Roy Porter."

      "Mine's Harry – I mean Harriet Emery; they call me Harry. Harriet's a beast of a name, isn't it?"

      Roy hesitated, somewhat taken back.

      "Oh, you needn't mind being polite," continued the girl. "I hate polite people – I mean the kind that say things they don't mean just to be nice to you. Harriet is a beast of a name; I don't care if I was named for Aunt Harriet Beverly. I hate it, don't you? Oh, I forgot! You're one of the polite sort!"

      "No, I'm not," answered Roy, laughing. "I don't like Harriet any better than you do. But I like Harry."

      "Do you?" she asked eagerly. "Honest? Hope to die?"

      "Hope to die," echoed Roy gravely.

      "Then you may call me Harry."

      "Thanks. Is Doctor Emery your father?"

      "Yes. Only they don't call him Doctor Emery – the boys, I mean."

      "Don't they? What do they call him?"

      "Emmy," answered Harry with a giggle. "It's such a funny name for papa! And mamma they call 'Mrs. Em.'"

      "And they call you Harry?" said Roy for want of something better to say. Harry's head went up on the instant and her blue eyes flashed.

      "You'd better believe they don't! That is, not many of them. They call me Miss Harry."

      "Oh, excuse me," Roy apologized. "Miss Harry."

      Harry hesitated. Then,

      "Those that I like call me Harry," she said. "And you – you rescued the baby. So – you may call me Harry, without the Miss, you know."

      "I'll try to deserve the honor," replied Roy very gravely.

      Harry observed him suspiciously.

      "There you go being polite and nasty," she said crossly. Then, with a sudden change of manner, she advanced toward him with one very brown and somewhat dirty little hand stretched forth and a ludicrous smirk on her face. "I forgot you were a new boy," she said. "I hope your stay with us will be both pleasant and profitable."

      Roy accepted the proffered hand bewilderedly.

      "There," she said, with a little shake of her shoulders and a quick abandonment of the funny stilted tone and manner, "there, that's done. Mamma makes me do that, you know. It's awfully silly, isn't it?"

      Methuselah, who, during the conversation, had remained perched silently on the girl's shoulder, now decided to take part in the proceedings.

      "Well, I never did!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Can't you be quiet? Naughty Poll! Stop your swearing! Stop your swearing!"

      This resulted in his banishment, Roy, at Harry's request, returning the borrowed box to its place, and the parrot being placed therein with strict injunctions to remain there.

      "Doesn't he ever get away?" asked Roy.

      "Oh, yes, sometimes. Once he got into the stable and went to sleep on the head of John's bed. John's the gardener, you know. And when he came in and saw Methuselah sitting there he thought it was an evil spirit and didn't stop running until he reached the cottage. My, he was scared!" And Harry giggled mischievously at the recollection.

      Then Roy was formally introduced to the numerous residents of the enclosure. Snip, a fox terrier, had already made friends. Lady Grey, a maltese Angora cat, who lay curled up contentedly in one of the lower tier of boxes, received Roy's caresses with well-bred condescension. Joe, one of her kittens, and a brother of the disgraced Spot, showed more interest and clawed Roy's hand in quite a friendly way. In other boxes were a squirrel called "Teety," two white guinea pigs, a family of rabbits, six white mice and a bantam hen who resented Roy's advent with a very sharp beak. And all about fluttered grey pigeons and white pigeons, fan-tails and pouters and many more the names of which Roy quickly forgot. And while the exhibition was going on Roy observed the exhibitor with not a little interest.

      Harriet – begging her pardon! Harry – Emery was fourteen years old, fairly tall for her age, not overburdened with flesh and somewhat of a tomboy. Considering the fact that she had been born and had lived all her short life at a boys' school the latter fact is not unnatural. I might almost say that she had been a trifle spoiled. That, however, would be rather unkind, for it was just that little spice of spoiling that had made Harry so natural and unaffected. The boys called Harry "a good fellow," and to Harry no praise could have been sweeter. As might have been expected, she had grown up with a fondness for boys' sports and interests, and could skate as well if not better than any pupil Ferry Hill had ever known, could play tennis well, could handle a pair of oars knowingly and wasn't very much afraid of a swiftly-thrown baseball. Her muscles were hard and illness was something she had long since forgotten about. But in spite of her addiction for boys' ways there was still a good deal of the girl about her, and she was capable of a dozen different emotions in as many minutes.

      Roy decided that she was rather pretty. Her hair was luridly red, but many persons would have called it beautiful. Her eyes were very blue and had a way of looking at you that was almost disconcerting in its frank directness. Her face was brown with sunburn, but there was color in the cheeks. A short, somewhat pugnacious little nose, not guiltless of freckles, went well with the red-lipped, mischievous mouth beneath. For the rest, Harry was a wholesome, lovable little minx with the kindest heart that ever beat under a mussy white shirt-waist and the quickest temper that ever went with red hair.

      Roy's examination of his new acquaintance was suddenly interrupted by the subject, who swung around upon him with an expression of great severity.

      "Do you know," she asked, "that the boys aren't allowed in here without permission and that if papa finds it out you'll be punished?"

      Roy shook his head in bewilderment.

      "And," continued Harry impressively, "that John is coming along the lane, and that if he sees you here he'll have to report you, and – "

      "What shall I do?" asked Roy, looking about for an avenue of escape.

      "Why," said Harry, laughing enjoyably at his discomfiture, "just stay where you are. I'm the one who gives permission!"

      CHAPTER III

      A MIDNIGHT HAZING

      After the lights were out that night Roy lay for quite a while in his bed in the Senior Dormitory reviewing the day. He was tired