The Youngest Girl in the Fifth | Page 8

as "Stumps".
"Lesbia, why couldn't you say sooner?" fretted Gwen.
"Only just remembered."
"And the porridge is so hot I've burned my mouth!" wailed Basil.
"You haven't a moment to waste!" urged Beatrice. "Have you all got
your boots on? I shall tell Father what you've done, Giles, as soon as he
comes downstairs."
Even the loss of ten minutes was a serious consideration to those
members of the Gascoyne family who were bound for school. Skelwick
was such an out-of-the-way place that they had quite a journey to get to
Stedburgh, the seaside town where Rodenhurst was situated. First they
had to walk two miles along a very exposed country road to the village
of North Ditton, where they could catch the motor omnibus that would
take them the remaining four miles into Stedburgh, and then there was
a further walk of at least ten minutes before they reached the school.
The bus always started with the utmost promptitude, so it was a daily
anxiety to leave home punctually and not be obliged to run the last half
mile. On this particular morning there was more than the usual
scramble to get off. At the last moment Gwen could not find her
galoshes, and remembered that she had broken the rib of her umbrella
some days before, and had forgotten to mention the fact and ask
Beatrice to have it mended.

"You're the most tiresome girl!" scolded the harassed elder sister. "Why
couldn't you tell me and I'd have sent it to Johnson's last night? Now I
suppose I shall have to lend you mine, and very likely you'll go and
break that too!"
"I don't want yours!" snapped Gwen, tucking her hair inside her
mackintosh and putting on her "stormy-weather" cap. "I wouldn't risk
smashing it for a five-pound note. I'll go without!" and snatching her
satchel of books she rushed after the others, who had already started.
The rain was driving furiously, and the road was full of little running
rivers of yellow mud. The strong wind made Gwen's eyes smart and
water, and she was obliged to hurry to make up for lost time; so when
she arrived at North Ditton she was a breathless, rather pitiful object,
and most decidedly cross. The omnibus was so full that she was
compelled to take Lesbia on her knee and to sit wedged between a very
fat wheezy old farmer and a market gardener, who nursed a parcel of
plants.
"It's rather fun, isn't it?" laughed Lesbia, graciously accepting the rose
that her neighbour offered her. (Somehow people always gave things to
Lesbia.)
"More fun for you than for me!" growled Gwen. "I wish you knew how
heavy you are!"
A bad start does not make a good preparation for the rest of the day,
and Gwen marched into the Fifth Form room that morning in no
conciliatory frame of mind. She was quite prepared to be ill received,
so she thought she would meet possible coldness by showing a defiant
attitude. It was an extremely foolish move, for it brought about the very
state of affairs she anticipated. Several of the nicer girls in the Form
had half repented their wrath of yesterday, and were ready not only to
treat her kindly, but to influence the others in her favour. When they
saw her enter, however, with a "don't care" scowling air and walk to her
desk, without even looking in their direction, they decided that she was
an ill-conditioned, disagreeable girl, and that they would not trouble
their heads about her. Instead, therefore, of going and speaking to her

as they had intended, they let her severely alone. As a rule, if we go
through life expecting slights and dislike, we get what we look for: the
self-made martyr can find stake and faggots waiting round every corner.
Gwen raged inwardly at the neglect of her classmates, but she did not
realize in the least that it was partly her own fault. She sat all the
morning with a thundercloud on her face, hurrying out of the room at
the interval and eating her lunch alone in a corner of the gymnasium.
"How are you getting on in the Fifth?" whispered Lesbia, who ran up
for a moment to sympathize.
"Badly," groaned Gwen. "They're boycotting me. Of course the Fourth
won't have anything to do with me now; so I'm like Mahomet's coffin,
swung between heaven and earth! It's not pleasant, I assure you."
"I should think not. I wish I could do anything."
"You can't. Go back and play basket-ball."
It was not Rodenhurst etiquette for Seniors to talk to Juniors, so Gwen,
mindful even in her forlorn state of her new dignity as a member of the
Upper School, could not indulge in the luxury of