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Sometimes Ray would snatch the bike and make the person give him a turn being a rider instead of a cop. People really preferred "Semi-Free Day" to regular bike day, because no one liked the job of being cop for more than two minutes. This job fell to Ray more often than to anyone else, to him or to his sister June, because they did not own bikes. Although they did not have bikes, in their yard they had the best climbing tree in the Alley, known as "Ray's" tree. Ray made everybody ask for permission to climb his tree, the way Connie did to swing in her swing and all the kids did to ride their bikes. "That was fair," thought Connie. Katy said it was fair, too.
    When it came to popularity, there was no one, big or little, boy or girl, who could compare with Katy. She would come to a back door and say, "It is I—Katy Starr—the most popular girl in the Alley." But she was nice about it—cute, gay, and bright. She would stick out her chest and beat it to show the comment was meant as a joke. But it was not a joke—it was true. Just look at "the laws" alone! All good, the laws were. Think of "Free Day," "Red light, Green light," the traffic laws. Think of Katy picking up the little ones if they were hurt, comforting them, wiping their noses, drying their tears, getting a Band-Aid or else the mother, taking out splinters, and telling them to be good; think of her telling Anthony Bigelow to get out of the way, not to hurt the tiny ones, not to kick Susie Goode, especially not to kick her on her sore leg, not to kick at all or to throw things. Katy also tried to cure Anthony of bad language. Over and over she told him not to crash into people, making them fall off their bicycles, unless it was "Free Day." Every day was "Free Day" to Anthony Bigelow, and he was the only child in the Alley who did not obey Katy's laws. Sometimes a trial was held in the Circle if a person broke a rule. The jail was in the hidy-hole of Hugsy's back yard. Anthony was banished there often. But he wouldn't even obey that law, and out he'd crawl. Off he'd go bawling to his mother, using bad language, not caring about little Janey, or Notesy, Nicky, or anybody hearing him, not even his little sister, Jilly.
    Now children were gathering in the Circle. Some came running, some sauntering, some came in special ways, walking backward, eyes shut, to the Circle.
    "I guess everybody'll play," said Billy.
    "Yes," Connie said. But she and he went on swinging. They
might
play. Connie watched Katy sorting people out up there, telling each one what part he'd play. "What a girl!"

    Connie began to think about the day Katy Starr had moved into the Alley—two and a half years ago. Ten minutes after Katy had moved in, she was right at home. Compare that with Connie's first day here! Connie had spent her first day rocking on Red Horsie—they did not have the jungle gym yet—and Horsie gave Connie courage. But Katy! By the end of her first day, she had learned the names of everyone, had raced up and down the Alley dozens of times, knocked at people's doors, introduced herself, already had become important. The sight of such self-possession awed Connie, and she had gone into her house and, from her dining-room window, watched the new girl—where she went, how she spoke. Connie felt shy. You would have thought Connie was the new girl and Katy the old one.
    Then, having caught a glimpse of Connie at her dining-room window, Katy came to Connie's back door, and she said, "I see you have different dining-room windows than we have." That showed how very observing Katy was, for Connie's windows were different. The Ives were among the few families in the Alley who still had the original little panes of stained-glass, turquoise and gold, in the top half of the dining-room windows. Papa washed them himself, not to let the huge window washer press too hard and break them.
    Then Katy had gone on to someone else's back door, the Carrolls' perhaps. At home everywhere, everywhere. In one