ir night's camping place.

"Better build a fire," Prissy said calmly.

She was worried and in bad pain. But she mustn't show it. The fire was
hard to start. The wood was damp, and they'd used all their kindling.
They sat as close as they could get to the sullen, smoky warmth.

Pip-Emma put her arm over Janet's shoulders. Clara sat on her other
side. Clara was shivering a little. Almost unconsciously she and
Pip-Emma edged closer to each other.

They took turns finding wood. Night added black shadows to the
muffling fog. It was getting colder. Pip-Emma had saved one of her
sausages, wrapped greasily in a paper napkin. She'd been hungry
before--that time Pop and Ma had both lost their jobs. There'd been
days and days when Pip-Emma had had this gnawing pain. So it didn't
worry her. But fat old Clara must be feeling real bad. She was always
hungry anyway.

"Here," Pip-Emma said softly.

Clara VanSittart gave one look at the sausage. Then she shut her eyes
tight. "Thanks--I guess I won't, though. The others haven't anything."

Pip-Emma looked at the sausage, too. She glanced anxiously at Janet.
Janet shook her head. So Pip-Emma tossed the sausage over her shoulder
into the forest. It was no good to any of them. One of the twins
grinned at her--a friendly, shy sort of grin. And suddenly Pip-Emma
was sorry.

She was sorry she'd made old Clara sick before the race. After all,
Clara couldn't help being fat and always hungry. She was sorry she'd
taken the kids' beads. Prissy was right--the shell trick was just a
trick. So it wasn't fair. Prissy was a good guy. She had guts; she
could take it.

The twins had put their extra coats over Prissy. There'd been quite a
gay argument about it. Now Prissy leaned exhausted with pain against a
tree, trying to smile at them.

"It's a real adventure," she said.

They nodded and tried to laugh back at her. All the same they were
just kids. They were scared, too, and awfully cold and hungry. They
were fighting back tears. Pip-Emma knew. And suddenly Pip-Emma began
to sing.

"We are the happy Penguins--
We play without a care . . ."

At first they just gaped at her. They couldn't believe their ears.
She'd never sung their songs. She'd made them feel how silly they
were. And now suddenly, joyfully, they understood. Pip-Emma was a
Penguin. She was one of them. And with a sensation like the breaking
of a bad pain Pip-Emma knew, too. They were all her Gang.

The fog-smothe