“No, no I haven’t,” she said, now fully awake. “What’s the matter? What’s happened? Dam hasn’t burst, has it?”
The boys jumped around. They were too excited to stand still; they just jumped around moaning, “Oh, what are we gonna do! She’ll die, she’ll die!”
The woman was getting mad. “What the hell’s happened, anyway? Tell me, but quick!”
“A kid’s been snake bit,” sobbed a small, chubby boy.
“For God’s sake, where?”
“Down in the creek,” he pointed toward the window.
The woman rushed out the store. Across the bridge she flew and down the pebbled beach. A crowd of people were gathered at the end of the beach. One of the Sunday school teachers was flying around the crowd, yelling her head off. Some of the children stood to one side, wall-eyed with horror and amazement at this thing that had broken up their party.
The woman broke through the crowd and saw the child that lay on the sand. It was the girl with the bubble eyes, like bright blue glass. “Elaine,” cried the woman. Everyone turned their attention on the new arrival. She knelt down beside the child and looked at the wound. Already it was swelling and turning color. The child shivered and wept and hit her head with her hand.
“Haven’t you got a car?” the woman asked one of the school teachers. “How did you get here?”
“We hiked over,” the other woman answered, fear and bewilderment in her eyes.
The woman rang her hands in rage. “Look here,” she said, “this kid’s serious; she’s liable to die.”
They all only stared at her. What could they do? They were helpless, just three silly women and a lot of children.
“All right, all right,” the woman cried. “You, you run up to the place and get a coupla chickens. You women get somebody to start running back to town to get a doctor. Hurry, hurry. We haven’t got a minute to lose.”
“But what can we do now for the child?” one of the women asked.
“I’ll show you,” the woman said.
She knelt down beside the little girl and looked at the wound. The place was swollen big now. Without a moment’s hesitation the woman bent over and sunk her mouth against the wound. She sucked and sucked, letting up every few seconds and spitting out a mouthful of fluid. There were only a few children left and one of the teachers. They stared with horrified fascination and admiration. The child’s face turned the color of chalk and she fainted. The woman spat out mouthfuls of saliva mixed with the poison. Finally she got up and ran to the stream. Rinsing her mouth out with the water, she gurgled furiously.
The children with the chickens arrived. Three big fat hens. The woman grabbed one of them by the legs, and with the aid of a jackknife ripped it open, the hot blood running over everything. “The blood draws what poison there is left, out,” she explained.
When that chicken had turned green she ripped open another and placed it against the child’s wound.
“Come on now,” she said. “Get hold of her and carry her up to the store. We’ll wait there until the doctor comes.
The children ran eagerly forward and with their combined efforts, managed to carry her comfortably. They were crossing the bridge when the school teacher said, “Really, I don’t know how we can ever thank you. It was so, it was—”
The woman pushed her aside and hurried on up the bridge. The ulcers were burning like mad from the poison, and she felt sick all over when she thought of what she had done.
Hilda
I
“Hilda—Hilda Weber, will you please come here a moment?”
Quickly she went to the front of the room and stood next to Miss Armstrong’s desk.
“Hilda,” Miss Armstrong said quietly, “Mr. York would like to see you after dismissal.”
Hilda stared questioningly for a moment, then she shook her head, her long black hair swinging from side to side and partly covering her pleasant face.
“Are you sure it’s me, Miss Armstrong? I haven’t done anything.” Her voice was frightened but very mature for a sixteen-year-old girl.
Miss Armstrong seemed annoyed. “I can only tell you what this note says.” She handed the tall girl a slip of white paper.
Hilda Weber—office—3:30.
Mr. York, Principal.
Hilda went slowly back to her desk. The sun shone brightly through the window and she blinked her eyes. Why was she being summoned to the office? It was the first time she had ever been called to see the principal, and she had been going to Mount Hope High for almost two years.
II
Somewhere in the back of her mind there was a vague fear. She had a feeling that she knew what it was the principal wanted to see her for—but no, that couldn’t be it—no one knew, no one even suspected. She was Hilda Weber—hard working, studious, shy, and unassuming. No one knew. How could they?
She felt a little comforted. It must be something else that Mr. York wanted to see her about. Perhaps he wanted her to be on the committee for the Prom. She smiled feebly and picked up her big green Latin book.
When the dismissal bell rang, Hilda went directly to Mr. York’s office. She presented the note to the complacent secretary in the outer office. When she was told to go in, she thought her legs were going to crumple beneath her. She shook with nervousness and excitement.
Hilda had seen Mr. York in the school corridors and had heard him speak at school assemblies but she could never remember having actually spoken with him personally. He was a tall man with a thin face topped with a great spray of red hair. His eyes were sea-pale and, at the moment, extremely pleasant.
Hilda came into the small, modestly furnished office with troubled eyes and a pale face.
III
“You are Hilda Weber?” The words were more a statement than a question. Mr. York’s voice was grave and pleasant.
“Yes, Sir, I am.” Hilda was surprised at her own calm voice. Inside she was cold and jittery and her hands clasped her books so tightly that she could feel the warm sweat. There was something terrible and frightening about seeing a principal, but his friendly eyes disarmed her.
“I see by your record here,” he picked up a big yellow card, “that you are an honor student, that you came here from a boarding school in Ohio, and that you are at present a Junior here at Mount Hope High School. Is that correct?” he asked.
She nodded her head and watched him intently.
“Tell me, Hilda, what are you most interested in?”
“In what way, Sir?” She must be on her guard.
“Why, pertaining to a future career in life.” He had picked up a gold key chain from his desk and was twirling it around.
“Well I don’t know, Sir. I thought I would like to be an actress. I’ve always had a great interest in dramatics.” She smiled, and dropped her gaze from his thin face to the whirling blur of chain.
“I see,” he said. “I ask this only because I would like to understand you. It’s quite important that I understand you.” He turned his chair around and sat up straight to the desk. “Yes, quite important.” She noticed that his air of informality had dropped.
IV
She fidgeted with her books nervously. He hadn’t said anything yet to accuse her, but she knew that her face was flushed; she felt very hot all over. Suddenly the closeness of the room was unbearable.
He laid down the chain. He was fixing to speak, she knew because she heard his sharp intake of breath, but she didn’t dare look up at him because she knew what he was going to say.
“Hilda, I suppose you know there has been a great deal of thieving going on here in the girls’ lockers.” He paused a moment. “It’s been going on for some time now—but we haven’t been able to lay our hands on the girl who would steal from her class mates.” He was stern and deliberate. “There is no place in this high school for a thief!” he said earnestly.
Hilda stared down at her books. She could feel her chin trembling and she bit her lips. Mr. York half rose from his seat and then sat down again. They sat in a tense, strained silence. Finally he reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a small blue box and emptied the contents on the desk. Two gold rings, a charm bracelet, and some coins.
“Do you recognize these?” he asked.
She stared at them for a long time. Fully forty-five seconds. They blurred in front of her eyes.
“But I didn’t steal those things, Mr. York, if that’s what you mean!”
V
He sighed. “They were found in your locker, and besides—we’ve had our eye on you for some time!”
“But I didn’t—” she stopped short, it was hopeless.
Finally Mr. York said, “But what I can’t understand is why a child like you would want to do such a thing. You’re bright, and as far as I can find out, you come from a fine family. Frankly, I am completely baffled.”
She still sat silent, fumbling with her books, and feeling as if the walls were close and tight, as if something were trying to smother her.
“Well,” he continued, “if you aren’t going to offer any explanation, I’m afraid there is little I can do for you. Don’t you realize the seriousness of this offense?”
“It’s not that,” she rasped. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you why I stole those things—it’s just
