“Did you sign up for what hours you want to use the pool?” she asked in a brisk, metallic voice. “Tuesday afternoons and Sundays for children.”

Lena, with an important cough, immediately took the pencil and put down, “Sundays, 2–4,” to the immense admiration of her sisters; then wrote all their names in the proper column in the new backward-slanting handwriting the girls in her class used.

“Willard,” repeated the lady, running her finger down a big list. “Is your father George Willard?”

“No, Harry Willard,” said Lena. The lady frowned.

“We have only one Willard here. How long has your father been a member?”

Lena looked blank, so Marcia stepped up.

“About six months,” she said.

The lady then shuffled some index cards, shaking her head.

“Perhaps he’s been dropped for nonpayment of dues,” she said. “I don’t see you children down as Junior Members, either. Have you paid your fee?”

“I don’t remember,” stammered Lena, getting very red. “How much was it?”

“The regular membership fee is ten dollars, and two dollars a month dues,” said the lady. “If your father had paid that up, your union fee would only be five dollars a year. Otherwise—”

“Does everybody have to be a member?” asked Lena.

The lady now removed the reading shade and passed a hand over her harassed brow, regarding them with some thought.

“Monday is Free Day,” she said. “Get your schoolteachers to write a statement that your parents cannot afford regular membership. That entitles you to all the Privileges on Free Day.”

“We’ll come Sundays, if we come, because our father is a member,” said Lena loudly. “Somebody here made a mistake, I guess, and he’ll have to see about it. We don’t want to come on any Free Day.”

She pushed Marcia and Florrie ahead of her out the front door, her lips drawn tight to keep from screaming her fury. They stood outside the front door, waiting for five o’clock to come, but Papa didn’t come back, and finally at half-past they straggled home, asking the way from a dozen people. It was Mr. Taylor’s fault. They restored a little of their spirits by imitating him with such success that when their father came home in an extraordinarily hilarious mood himself he found them in shrieks of laughter, pulling their noses and blinking their eyes and shouting “what-the-hell” in unison.

“I guess you kids had a good time,” he said, and they laughed some more.

22

I HATE LESTERVILLE! I hate Lesterville!” Lena was the first to come out and say it, though it was in a low mutter that only her sisters could hear. If only they could have stayed in dear London Junction, they mourned, and Lena went as far as to write firm letters to Aunt Lois and Mrs. Friend, suggesting that a long visit to the Junction would be appreciated.

“There is no use our going to school any more because the bunch just talks about the new Athletic Club and we can’t go there because we’re not members. Marcia’s teacher won’t pay attention when she holds up her hand to answer, then she gives her F on her grade card. Florrie hasn’t any party dress, so she can’t go to parties when she’s asked. Nobody asks Marcia and me, ha ha. There is a rat in the kitchen. I wish Mama was alive. Mrs. Jane is mean to us. If somebody doesn’t take us away from here we will run away, anyhow me.”