The Annam Jewel by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

Ethel Dawkins opened the door of the classroom and, in a piercing whisper, called Rose Ellen’s name. As there was no reply, she bounced into the room and struck a match. The empty room frightened her, but when the full gas-light failed to disclose Ellen Smith in a dead faint on the floor, she convinced herself that the dratted little Loony must have given her the slip either at the moment of her opening the door, or when she was putting out the lights. She put them out again now, grumbling to herself, locked up the classroom, and, meeting Miss Jones in the hall, handed her the keys. Subsequently she deposed with great fluency to having seen Ellen go upstairs.
    Peter was waiting upon the top of the wall. He had spread a sweater over the broken glass, but the seat could not be described as a comfortable one. He hoped Rose Ellen would not be very long. When he heard her little, hesitating footsteps, he felt a certain glow of pride. He had told her to come and she came.
    He said, “Hullo!” and heard her answer with a piteous catch of the breath:
    â€œPeter?”
    Peter had reached the top of the wall by dint of using a strong bough with cross-branches as a ladder.
    He now hauled and tugged at this bough, got it on to the top of the wall and lowered it, butt-end first, until it rested in the angle formed by the corner. Next moment he had scrambled down into the playground, landing with a thud that drew a little gasp from Rose Ellen.
    She did not speak when he got up, but clutched him very tight and trembled. Peter gave her a hug, told her she was a brick, and came at once to business.
    â€œNow, Rose Ellen, I’m going to put you up on the top of the wall. You must climb on my back. I’ll kneel down, and you must stand on my shoulders. Catch hold of this branch—feel, it’s quite firm—and steady yourself whilst I get up. It won’t be difficult, and you’re not to be a little mug and get frightened. There’s my coat and a sweater on the top of the wall, so you won’t get cut. Now, come on!”
    He got down on his knees, grasping the butt-end of the branch, and Rose Ellen climbed easily to a standing position on his shoulders. Then came the ticklish part of the job. Peter said, “Are you ready?” and began to get on to his feet, bearing down upon the branch and leaning forward so as to keep Rose Ellen well in the angle. There was one dizzy moment when he felt her swing backwards, but she caught at the wall and got her balance again. Now that Peter was standing, Rose Ellen could hold on to the coping, and her head was clear of the wall. Peter put his hands up.
    â€œI’m going to push you on to the top of the wall with my hands under your feet. Right foot first. Feel for my hand and hold on all you can.”
    Rose Ellen had stopped shaking. She did exactly as she was told. She was light, and Peter was strong. Lifting and straining, he pushed her up high enough to get her knee on to the place where his coat covered the glass. The rest was easy.
    Peter swarmed up the branch, dropped it down on the other side, lowered Rose Ellen, and followed her, bringing his coat with him. He had two surface cuts, and was very much out of breath; but the thing was done. He picked up the sweater from the grass where it had dropped with Rose Ellen, and entered upon the next stage of the proceedings.
    â€œTake off that dress,” he said, and Rose Ellen obeyed. “Now put this on.”
    He handed her the sweater.
    â€œAm I going to be a boy?”
    â€œI expect so.”
    â€œBut my petticoat shows, Peter de—ah.”
    Peter felt in the dusk. The petticoat, of the same old-fashioned make as the discarded dress, stood out below the sweater in a deep, stiff frill.
    Peter was in a dilemma. If she took the petticoat off, Rose Ellen would be cold. If she kept it on, she would certainly attract attention. It was at this moment that the rhyme of “The Little Old