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though bitter, were real. Had Jaro been a misshapen freak, or a bizarre genius, she would have accepted the situation with no more than an uninterested jerk of the chin. But Jaro was quite normal, clean, nice looking, something of a loner, and even more indifferent to her than she to him—or so it seemed. Too bad he was a nimp, and so could not be taken seriously. She wondered what would become of him. Then, thinking about her own case, she gave a sardonic little grimace. What, indeed, would become of Skirlet Hutsenreiter?
    Skirlet at last accepted the presence of Jaro philosophically. After all, it was an excellent thing to be born a Hutsenreiter and a Clam Muffin! Unfair? Not necessarily. Things were the way they were; why make changes?
    One afternoon, halfway through the term, Skirlet sat in a group and heard Jaro’s name mentioned by a certain Hanafer Glackenshaw. Hanafer was a large boisterous youth with rich blond curls and emphatic overlarge features. Hanafer considered himself decisive and masterful: a maker and shaper of enterprises. He liked to stand with head thrown back, the better to display his prideful high-bridged nose. He felt himself gifted with great inherent comporture, and perhaps it was so; he had thrust and wheedled and shouldered his way up the ledges, surmounting the Persimmons, up past the Spalpeens and into the Human Ingrates. Now the time had come to re-establish his social buoyancy and make new entries into his stringbooks.
    Hanafer was captain of the Langolen School roverball team, which found itself in need of several strong agile forwards ready for a mix-up. A loose-limbed tomboy of a girl named Tatninka indicated Jaro, at the other side of the yard: “Why not him? He looks strong and healthy.”
    Hanafer glanced toward Jaro and snorted. “You don’t know what you’re saying! That’s Jaro Fath, and he’s a nimp. Further, his mother is Professor Fath at the Institute and she’s a pacifist, and won’t allow him to wrestle, or box, or compete in any violent sport. So: he’s not only a nimp, but a total and absolute moop.”
    Skirlet, on the periphery of the group, heard the remarks. She glanced toward Jaro; by chance their eyes met. For an instant there was communication between them; then Jaro looked away. Skirlet was unreasonably annoyed. Did he not realize that she was Skirlet Hutsenreiter, autonomous and free, who tolerated neither criticism nor judgment, and went where she chose?
    It was Tatninka, rather than Skirlet, who bore the news to Jaro. “Did you hear what Hanafer called you?”
    “No.”
    “He said you were a moop!”
    “Oh? What’s that? Nothing good, I suspect.”
    Tatninka giggled. “I forgot; you’re really off in the clouds, aren’t you? Well, then!” She recited a definition she had heard Hanafer use only the week before: “If you come upon a very timid nimp who wets the bed and wouldn’t say ‘peep’ to a pussycat—you have found a moop.”
    Jaro sighed. “Very well; now I know.”
    “Hmf. You’re not even angry,” said Tatninka in disgust.
    Jaro reflected. “Hanafer can be carried off by a big bird, for all I care. Otherwise, there is no return message.”
    Tatninka spoke with annoyance, “Really, Jaro, you should not act with such insouciance when you can’t show an itch of status, nor so much as a place to scratch it.”
    “Sorry,” murmured Jaro. Tatninka turned and marched off to join her friends. Jaro walked home to Merriehew.
    Althea met him in the downstairs hall. She kissed his cheek, then stood back and inspected him. “What is wrong?”
    Jaro knew better than to dissemble. “It’s nothing serious,” he growled. “Just some of Hanafer Glackenshaw’s talk.”
    “What kind of talk,” demanded Althea, instantly brittle.
    “Oh just names: ‘nimp’ and ‘moop.’ ”
    Althea compressed her lips. “That is not acceptable conduct, and I shall have a word with his mother.”
    “No!” cried Jaro in a panic. “I don’t care