further speculation. "Here they come! Here they come!" went a tremor through the crowd of candidates, and when the doors were thrown open a masked committee confronted them. Orders, all kinds and volumes of them, poured in quickly as tag numbers could be singled out. Some were taken in little groups of four "outside to cool off." Others were commanded to hop around in circles, while still more were given such individual commands as seemed most antagonistic to their particular propensities. Shirley was still unmolested. She stood bravely awaiting her turn, now and then flinging out a wild arm to make sure its muscles were in good shape for the fray. Finally someone (we hope it was not Judith) called her number-- sixty-eight, and she sprang to the chalk line with what is usually termed alacrity, but it really sounded much more ominous. "Does your head hurt?" asked the voice, and Shirley nodded. She thought that might be safest. "What hit you?" went on the prosecutor. "A hammer!" responded Shirley. "A nice hard tack hammer?" came the query again. "Lovely," spoke the bewildered girl. "What did you do with it?" asked the inquisitor. There was no response. The Rebel was getting indignant. "Quick," demanded a second member "of the firing squad." "I threw it away," faltered sixty-eight. "What did it hit?" "A looking-glass." This reply came quickly enough. "And the glass smashed?" "Yes--" "Yes, madam," prompted a guard. "Yes, madam," repeated Shirley with a quiver.