Her face grew white to the very lips,
as she faced the lad below.
"Alan Hapgood!" she exclaimed; "what right have you to say so? If
you don't keep still, I'll turn the water on you."
"All right," said the boy composedly, never dreaming how excited
she really was; "fire ahead, if 'twill give you any satisfaction.
I suppose poets are always rather peppery."
The next instant, the strong, full jet of icy cold water struck
him directly in the chest. Polly's aim was accurate, the force of
the water great, so a few seconds had drenched the boy from his
neck to his shoes. How long it might have lasted was uncertain,
but a hasty misstep sent Polly head foremost to the ground, where
she lay for an instant, stunned by her fall. Unmindful of his
wetting, Alan ran to her side.
"Polly, are you hurt? Where is it?" he exclaimed.
But Polly sprang up fiercely.
"Go away, Alan! You needn't come here again till I send for you."
And she ran into the house, and up to the safe refuge of her own
room.
Once there, in quiet and alone, she quickly came to her senses and
realized, with a horrible fear, all that she had done, all that it
might yet do. It was her first serious quarrel with Alan, and for
such a little cause she had turned upon her favorite companion.
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