It was five o’clock before they finally straggled away from the gym and the call for the entire cast and stage crew was 6:30 o’clock for Miss Williams wanted everyone on hand early. Janet had seen the instructor conferring with a rather distinguished looking man that afternoon and guessed that he was the representative of the producing company, there to see the production and make the final decision on offering a job to Miss Williams.
Janet, in spite of the fact that she was only a member of the stage crew, found it hard to eat even though supper that night was especially delicious and her mother, although silent, looked at her reprovingly.
Helen arrived before supper was over and Janet was surprised to see her so calm. Perhaps her father had been coaching her on composure.
Janet folded up a clean smock, tucked it under one arm, and joined Helen.
“Good luck, girls,” said her father. “We’ll wait for you after the show and all have a lunch down town to celebrate the event.”
“Do you know where your folks are going to sit?” asked Janet.
Helen shook her head. “Dad wouldn’t tell me; thought if I knew I would be looking for them and it might make me nervous.”
“This is the first time a high school class has ever performed before a famous Hollywood director,” said Janet.
“Oh, don’t think of Dad in that way. Now that he’s back home he’s just a neighbor and he wants to be thought of in that way.”
“All right, but you can’t keep the cast from remembering that an ace director is in the audience tonight.”
“I suppose not. I only hope it won’t make them too excited and upset.”
“How about yourself?”
“I had been wondering up until tonight. But now I’ve made myself realize that he’s just Dad and that makes all of the difference in the world. Sort of gives me the confidence that I need for I know that if I make mistakes he’ll understand. I wish you were going to be Abbie.”
“Well I’m not, and you’ll get along all right with Margie. I think she’s really been working hard.”
“Oh, she’s worked hard enough, but somehow she doesn’t seem real in the character.”
“You mean I’m just crazy and silly enough to make a very real Abbie?” chided Janet.
Helen’s face flushed quickly.
“You know better than that. Margie is light-headed enough for the rôle of Abbie, but she lacks some spark of sincerity that’s needed, for after all, you know, Abbie finally solves the riddle of the Chinese image and pulls out the string of priceless pearls which saves the fortunes of the Naughtons.”
The cast and stage crew reported on time and Miss Williams checked each of them in. She devoted her own energies to making up the principals while several other teachers, fairly adept in dramatics, helped with the makeup of the minor characters.
Janet put on her smock and checked the lighting instructions which had been mimeographed and placed it beside the small switchboard. Actually she knew them all by heart, but she wanted to be sure there would be no mistake; no dimming of the lights when they should be brightened nor a sudden blackout in the middle of a love scene.
Margie Blake came up from one of the dressing rooms. She was glorious in salmon-hued taffeta and golden slippers.
Margie, fully aware of the striking picture she made, walked slowly across the stage, which had been set for the opening scene, the garden of the Naughton home.
Ed Rickey was standing nearby and Janet saw his eyes widen as they took in the beauty of Margie and her costume. And Janet felt her own heart tighten. Here she was in a smock, with her hands none too clean, no wonder that Ed had eyes only for Margie.
One of the sky drops was hanging unevenly and Miss Williams sent one of the boys in the stage crew up into the loft to adjust the lines and even the drop. The dramatic instructor stood in the middle of the stage motioning for first one end of the drop and then the other to be lifted or lowered.
Suddenly there was a cry from the loft and Janet, looking up, saw one end of the heavy drop sagging. It hung there for a moment. Then there was the sound of rending wood and the drop hurtled down toward the stage.
Miss Williams leaped backward instinctively, but Margie, seated on a garden bench, didn’t have a chance.
Janet tried to shout a warning, but the cry jammed in her throat. Margie looked up and Janet caught one terror-stricken look on her face. Then the drop thudded to the floor, a tangle of painted canvas enveloping Margie.
Chapter XIII
JANET STEPS IN
Ed Rickey was the first to reach Margie. With desperate hands he tore away the pile of canvas, splintered wood and snarl of rope. Jim Barron, who had rushed from the dressing room with his makeup only half on, helped Ed lift Margie to a nearby bench.
Then Miss Williams took charge. Margie was breathing regularly, but her eyes were closed. There was a nasty bump over her forehead and her dress looked like it might have been run over by a ten-ton truck, for a mass of dust and grime had come down with the drop.
The boy who had been in the scene loft scrambled down.
“The pulleys let go!” he cried. “Honestly, Miss Williams, I couldn’t help it.”
“Of course not, and I don’t think Margie is badly hurt. She’ll come around in a minute or two.”
Someone brought a glass of water and Miss Williams raised Margie’s head and forced some water between her lips.
After a time Margie opened her eyes.
“Where was the storm?” she mumbled. Then, recognizing the anxious faces of the members of the cast about her, struggled to sit up.
“What hit me?” she demanded thickly.
“The pulleys gave way and a drop came down,” explained Ed.
Margie tried to stand up, but sat down abruptly.
“My head,” she moaned. “It feels ten sizes too large.”
“Carry her downstairs,” Miss Williams said to Ed and Jim. While the boys were obeying instructions, Miss Williams went to a telephone and summoned a doctor.
It was 7:15 o’clock then and the curtain was set for eight. In just forty-five minutes the show must go on and Margie had a splitting headache and her costume was ruined at least for the night.
When Doctor Bates, the school physician arrived, it was 7:30 o’clock and Margie, stretched out on a couch in the girls’ dressing room, was holding cold cloths on her head.
Doctor Bates’ examination was quick but thorough.
“Mild concussion, I’d say. She must go to bed at once and remain there, perfectly quiet, for at least twenty-four hours.”
Margie struggled to her feet and was as promptly returned to the couch by the doctor, who forced her to choke back her words.
“Sure, I understand,” he said. “You’ve got a part in the play and you’ve got to go on. That’s the tradition of the theater. But this isn’t a theater. This is a high school play and young lady you’re not going to risk serious injury to yourself by doing any such thing as attempting to appear in this play. I’m going to take you home right now.”
Doctor Bates, who usually had his way, helped Margie out to his car. It was a tearful and protesting Margie, but Miss Williams joined in insisting that she go home and there was nothing else for her to do.
By the time Margie was on her way home the first rows of the gym were filling with spectators and Miss Williams, a look of desperate intent upon her face, called the cast together on the stage.
“We’ve got to go on for this means so much to me and to you. Try and forget, if you can, what has happened to Margie. Do everything you can to help the girl I’m going to push into Margie’s rôle. If she stumbles on her lines or forgets them, fake until you can pick it up again.”
Then she swung toward Janet.
“Can you get anything from home you can wear for the first act—something very light and pretty. You’ll be able to wear the costumes intended for Margie in the other two acts.”
“You mean you want me to step in and take Margie’s rôle?” asked Janet.
“That’s exactly what I mean. You’ve got to do it. You’re the only one who knows the lines.”
“But I’m afraid I’ll make a terrible mess of things; I’ll spoil the whole show.”
“You can’t, Janet, you can’t.” There was desperate entreaty in Miss Williams’ words. “I’ve heard you repeating Margie’s lines to yourself at rehearsal. You know them all and you know the action. Just imagine that you were originally picked for the rôle. You can handle it, I know.”
“Come on, Janet. This is our chance. We’ll be playing together tonight. I need you to steady me.” It was Helen speaking, saying she needed Janet to steady her.
Janet smiled to herself. She would be the one who would need bolstering.
Miss Williams came up.
“I’ve found one of the boys with a car. He’ll take you home and bring you back with a costume for the first act. I don’t want to hold the curtain unless absolutely necessary.”
“I’ll make it,” promised Janet.
There was no one at home and she rushed upstairs and dove into the large wardrobe in her room. She had been wondering all the way home what to select. Probably that pale green silk print. She’d only worn it once or twice, and never to anything at school.
Janet seized the dress, slipped out of the smock and everyday dress she had worn under that, and wiggled into the cool, crisp silk. Stockings and shoes were changed in a flash. Pausing just a moment before her mirror, she brushed her hair vigorously until the light caught all of its natural golden glints. Then she ran down stairs, breathless from the rush.
It was two minutes to eight, just two minutes before the curtain was scheduled to go up, when Janet reached the stage. Miss Williams was pacing nervously when she hurried on, but she stopped instantly and eyed Janet approvingly.
“Splendid, dear, splendid. We’ll start on time. If you forget some of the lines, just make up a few sentences until you can recall them. The rest of the cast will help you carry along.”
Helen, dark and radiant, came out of the wings.
“You need a little more color on your cheeks. You look as pale as a ghost.”
“I feel pretty much like a ghost,” confessed Janet as they slipped into a dressing room where Helen adeptly applied a touch of rouge, used an eyebrow pencil sparingly, and then finished the makeup with just enough lipstick to accentuate the charm of Janet’s lips.
“Everybody ready?” It was Miss Williams, calling the cast together for a final checkup.
Fortunately Janet would not go on until the middle of the first act. It would give her an opportunity to regain her full composure, to get into the swing of the play, and to brush up on any lines she was afraid she might forget.
The music of the high school orchestra, which was playing in the pit out front, reached a crescendo and died away. Janet faintly heard a wave of applause for the efforts of the orchestra. Then the girl who had taken her place at the switchboard dimmed the house lights, shoved the switch that sent the electricity surging into the footlights, and the curtain started up.
There was that little breathless pause before the action of the play began. Then Helen, the first character on the stage, started her lines. Clearly, confidently, she spoke, and Janet’s fears for the play, fears for any mistakes of her own, melted away. Helen was going magnificently, perfectly at ease and seemingly living the very rôle of Gale Naughton.
Janet slipped into the mood of the play. It wasn’t hard for she had attended every rehearsal and knew the lines of almost every character.
On the other side of the stage Miss Williams, the prompt book in her hands, was obviously pleased.
Then came a cue that awoke Janet from the pleasant glow. She was on next. With hands that fluttered just a little she picked up a mirror on the tiny dressing table in the wings and made sure that her hair was right.
It was time for her to go on, a rollicking, bouncing sort of entrance that one would expect from gay, light-hearted Abbie Naughton, and Janet did it perfectly.
The blaze of light from the footlights shielded her from the audience. She didn’t need to care what they were thinking. All she needed to do was to go through her part, playing it to the utmost. Later she would know what the audience thought, but then it would be too late to matter.
Janet and Helen had a fast exchange of lines, Helen reproving Janet for her gayety when the family funds were so low. They carried that hard bit of repartee off successfully and when the conversation swung to another character, Helen whispered under her breath.
“You’re grand, simply grand. Keep it up.”
“Double the compliment for yourself,” replied Janet, her lips barely moving yet the words were audible to Helen.
The first act was over suddenly. The curtain came down, smoothly, silently, and as it bumped the floor a gathering wave of applause echoed throughout the gym. Miss Williams nodded and the curtain went up again, the members of the cast smiling and bowing.
Then came the rush for the second act. The stage must be reset and the girls, especially, had to put on new costumes. Miss Williams stopped Janet in the wings.
“Margie’s costumes for the last two acts are laid out in the dressing room. I’m sure they’ll fit.” Then she laughed. “They’ll have to, Janet. We can’t stop for a costume, can we?”
“Not after the first act,” replied Janet.
But Margie’s costumes did fit. It was as though they had been made for Janet.
The action of the play moved more rapidly, swirling closer and closer around the Chinese image on its pedestal in the garden.
Finally came the third act with Janet, clumsy, jubilant Janet, accidentally knocking over the image, which burst open when it struck the stage floor and there, inside the figure of clay, was the secret of the image and the continued comfort of the Naughtons—a ruby, so perfect, so beautiful, that it was worth an exceedingly large fortune.
Before Janet knew it the curtain came down for the final time and on its echo came a sustained wave of applause. First the cast, then Miss Williams, and then the cast, answered the steady calls for their appearance. When Janet and Helen, coming out hand in hand, took a bow, the applause reached a new peak and then died away as the audience, satisfied as having paid tribute to the two stars of the show, prepared to leave the spacious gymnasium.
There was the usual crowd on the stage, parents and friends rushing up to congratulate members of the cast and over in one corner Janet saw Miss Williams signing her name to a paper that looked very much like a contract. Without doubt the dramatics instructor had earned her contract with the producing company.
“I’m tired,” announced Helen, in a very matter-of-fact manner.
“I suppose I am, too, but I’m still far too excited to realize it,” replied Janet. “Here come the folks.”
Her father and mother, closely followed by Helen’s parents, were pushing their way through the crowd.
“I’m mighty proud of you two,” said John Hardy as he gave each of them a hug.
“I’m more than that,” chuckled Helen’s father. “I’m tempted to sign them to contracts and take them back to Hollywood with me.”
Chapter XIV
JUST FISHING
Henry Thorne’s words echoed in Janet’s ears as the girls changed their costumes in the dressing room. Of course he must have been saying it lightly, paying them a pleasant compliment for their work. She forced herself to dismiss it from serious consideration.
They changed quickly, hung up their costumes, and hurried out to join their parents for Henry Thorne was entertaining at dinner down town.
“What was the idea of telling us you were in charge of lighting when you actually played the second lead?” Janet’s mother asked after they had left the gym and were rolling down town in the car.
“But mother, I told the truth. I was in charge of lighting until about twenty minutes before the curtain went up. Then one of the drops broke away and fell on Margie. She suffered a minor concussion and it was up to someone to step in and take the part or the show would have flopped right then and there before the curtain went up.”
“You mean you stepped in cold and handled the second lead?” asked Henry Thorne, turning around in the front seat to gaze incredulously at Janet.
“But it wasn’t hard. You see I tried out for that rôle and then I attended every rehearsal. Of course I sort of lived the character I tried out for. I missed some of the lines tonight, but the others knew I might and they covered up for me.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. I thought you had been rehearsing it from the first and had told us you were on lights just to surprise us,” said the famous director. “Anyway, you did a swell job. Maybe I will take you back to the coast with me.”
“Now Henry,” protested his wife, “don’t start saying things you don’t mean. You’ll get the girls all excited and then you’ll have to rush away to start work on another picture and you’ll forget all about your promises to them.”
“Probably you’re right mother, but they’re smart, good looking girls, even if one of them is my daughter, and heavens knows we could use some really smart, level-headed girls in one of my companies.”
Janet’s father wheeled the car in to the curb in front of the restaurant where they were to have dinner and in the bustle of getting out of the car conversation switched to another topic, but Henry Thorne’s words persisted in sticking in Janet’s mind.
Henry Thorne had planned and ordered the supper himself. It was a man’s meal and Janet and Helen, now tremendously hungry after the strain of the play, enjoyed it to the utmost.
First there was chilled tomato juice and in the center of the table a heaping platter of celery, olives and pickled onions that they ate with relish through all of the courses of the dinner.
Then came great sizzling steaks, thick and almost swimming in their own juice, french fried potatoes, a liberal head lettuce salad, small buttered peas, hot rolls and jam. And after that there was open-face cherry pie and coffee for those who cared for it.
“So this is your idea of a meal, Henry?” asked his wife, surveying the welter of dishes on the table.
“Well, perhaps not every day and every meal, but once in a while I’d say yes. This is my idea of a meal.”
“I think it’s been grand,” spoke up Janet’s mother, “especially since I didn’t have to do any work toward it.”
“That does make a difference,” conceded Mrs. Thorne, “but I’d hate to think of Henry’s waistline if he had a meal like this every day.”
Conversation turned to neighborhood issues and talk of the town, for Henry Thorne maintained a tremendously active interest in the affairs of his home city.
When they finally started home, it was well after one o’clock, but routine school days for Janet and Helen were at an end. Exams were over and there was only the junior-senior banquet and then commencement.
Janet slept late the next morning and it was after ten o’clock when her mother finally awakened her.
“Helen and her father just phoned they are coming over. I thought you might like to go with them. After they get some worms out of the back yard they’re going fishing. I’ll put up a lunch.”
Janet hurried into her clothes and met Helen and her father as they arrived. Henry Thorne was armed with an ancient cane fishpole, had on a venerable straw hat, cracked but comfortable shoes, old overalls and a blue shirt.
“I think he’s thoroughly disreputable looking,” said Helen, laughing at her father.
“Granted, my dear, but I’m most thoroughly comfortable, which is the main thing. I wouldn’t trade this old fishing outfit for the best suit of clothes in the world.”
Janet showed them a corner of the back lot that promised to be productive of worms, and then went in the house for her own breakfast. She ate on the kitchen table while her mother packed a basket of lunch to be taken by the anglers.
It was a grand morning for a fishing expedition and especially if those going fishing really didn’t care whether they caught any fish or not. Just before they left Janet’s father arrived and hastily changed into old clothes.
“Want to go to the creek in the car?” asked John Hardy.
“Not on your life. We’re walking, both ways,” grinned Henry Thorne, and the men, the cane poles over their shoulders, started for the creek. Helen carried the can of worms and Janet took the lunch basket.
Indian creek was a pleasant stream, meandering through the rolling hills north of Clarion. Its waters were clear, alternating in quiet pools and swift little riffles over its gravel bed.
The air was mild and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. They went up the creek for more than a mile before Henry Thorne found a pool that looked like it might have a few bullheads. The foliage overhead was thick and the water here looked almost turgid, far different from the clear stream which danced along its bed farther down.
The men baited their hooks and Janet and Helen sat down to watch the fishermen.
Helen’s father got the first bite, but he failed to land his fish. After that there was a long interval when the fishermen failed to talk and the fish failed to bite. Then the bullheads all seemed hungry and Janet’s father was the first to land one, but Henry Thorne was right behind him with a larger catch.
“Cut a willow stick for a stringer,” said Helen’s father, tossing a knife to her, and Helen, knowing exactly what was needed, found a forked willow and trimmed it down.
In less than an hour they had eleven bullheads on the willow stick.
“That’s plenty,” decided Janet’s father. “There’s no use spoiling the fun by taking more than we need. Shall we have them for supper tonight at my place?”
“Nothing doing. We’ll have them right here. Remember when we were kids and used to clean them along the creek, put them on a stick, and try and cook them over a fire?”
Janet’s father nodded.
“That’s what we’re going to do right now. We’ll clean the fish while the girls get some dry sticks and build a fire.”
Thus they had their noon meal, bullheads off the spit, crisp and hot, with just a sprinkle of salt on them, sandwiches and fruit from the basket, and cool, sweet water from a nearby spring.
Henry Thorne, his appetite appeased, his mind and body relaxed, stretched out on the grass and looked meditatively into the creek.
“What a life this would be—no strain, no thoughts of tomorrow, no temperamental stars to worry about, no stories to doctor, no budget to watch.”
“But after what you’ve had this would tire in a few weeks. Why, you’re thinking about getting back into the harness right now,” said Janet’s father.
Henry Thorne flushed guiltily.
“Caught that time,” he admitted. “Sure I was thinking about getting back on the job. I’m too much of a work horse, I guess.”
“But you’ll stay until after graduation, won’t you?” asked Helen anxiously.
“That’s one thing you needn’t worry about,” promised her father. “I’m thinking now of what’s going to be best for you after high school days are over; whether you and mother will prefer to stay here in Clarion or would like to come west with me. You’re pretty much of a young woman now, Helen, and from the play last night, quite a capable little actress.”
“Not much of an actress, I’m afraid, Dad, but I did want to be in the class play because you were coming home and I wanted you to be proud of me.”
“I was very proud of you, dear. Just how proud you’ll never know, and I’ve been trying to think of something I could do that would show you just how pleased I was over the work you and Janet did in the class play.”
They were silent for a time, all of them enjoying the quiet charm of the afternoon. Henry Thorne puffed slowly on a venerable pipe while Janet’s father dozed, his hat pulled down to shield his eyes from the sun. The embers of their fire turned black and then grey as they cooled.
Janet thoroughly enjoyed relaxing on the creek bank. School days were almost over and she couldn’t help wondering what the summer and the coming year would hold in store for her. Of course there would be college in the fall, but just where had not been determined. It was generally understood at home, though, that she would be allowed to make her own choice providing it was anywhere near within reason.
Janet knew that Helen’s plans were very uncertain. Her friend wasn’t even sure that they would continue to make their home in Clarion.
Just then Henry Thorne knocked the ashes out of his pipe and squinted at the sun.
“Better be starting home,” he said. He picked up a small stick and tossed it at Janet’s father, who awoke with a start.
“Come on sleepy-head. Time to go.”
Janet finished packing the few utensils that went back into the lunch basket while the men wound up the lines on their fishpoles.
They started home, walking leisurely in the warm afternoon, the men leading the way.
Half a mile down the creek they came upon a farm boy, riding bareback. The horse was a beautiful, spirited animal, and the lad rode with amazing grace. They paused for several minutes to watch the horse and rider until they finally disappeared over a nearby hill.
“Can either of you girls ride?” Henry Thorne asked the question almost sharply.
“A little, but not much nor very well,” confessed Janet.
“I belong in the same class,” added Helen.
“Is there any place in town where we can find good horses and a good instructor?” Helen’s father shot the question at John Hardy.
“Hill and Dale farm keeps a fine string of horses. I’m sure I could arrange for instruction there.”
“I’ll go with you this evening and we’ll see what can be done. I want the girls to become proficient at riding as soon as possible.”
“But what’s the idea?” asked Helen.
“Just another quirk of mine,” smiled her father.
As soon as they reached home Henry Thorne urged Janet’s father to accompany him to see about riding lessons for the girls and just before dinner returned.
“Your first lesson will be at eight o’clock to-morrow morning,” he announced. “Look up some old duds that won’t be hurt if you fall off.”
“But how about the girls?” demanded his wife.
“They’ll have to take a chance on that,” he smiled.
Chapter XV
HOLLYWOOD BOUND
Janet remained awake for some time that night, wondering what the significance of Henry Thorne’s decision to have her and Helen learn to ride, and ride well, could be. Finally she gave it up as a bad job, realizing that he would tell them in his own good time.
Graduation week passed in a mixed whirl of events, with the junior-senior banquet and actual graduation exercises interspersed between the long hours passed at Hill and Dale farm where Janet and Helen underwent an intensive series of lessons on horsemanship. Both girls were agile and anxious to learn, and both soon came to enjoy the riding thoroughly. Their instructor, an older man, found them eager pupils and Helen’s father encouraged them at each lesson, for he went with them on every trip to the farm.
Like the senior class play, the graduation exercises were held in the gymnasium and Helen stopped for Janet. They were going on ahead of their parents for they had to be at school half an hour before the start of the program.
“I hope I don’t smell like a stable,” smiled Helen, radiant in her crisp, white organdie dress. “We’ve been at the farm so much I almost say ‘Giddap’ every time I start to do anything.”
“I feel almost the same way. One good thing, though, I can sit down comfortably now and I couldn’t after the first two days.”
When they came down from Janet’s room, Helen’s father and mother were there.
“We’re early, but I want to talk to your folks,” Henry Thorne told Janet. “You youngsters run along and we’ll be there in plenty of time.”
When they were on their way to school, Helen spoke.
“Dad’s been acting so mysteriously the last two days and mother seems to be unusually happy about something. This morning Dad put in a call for Hollywood, but he wouldn’t talk from home; went down to a pay station. I asked mother what was up, but she said not for me to worry as long as she wasn’t.”
“Perhaps he isn’t going back west,” suggested Janet.
“You don’t know Dad. I heard him mumbling just this afternoon about some kind of a story idea. You know he usually sits in on the final drafting of all of the stories he produces. I expect that as soon as graduation is over he’ll start back.”
“Has he said anything more about taking you with him?”
“Not a word lately and that’s what I’m puzzled about. Neither Dad nor mother have talked about what I’m to do next fall. You know I’d like to go to school with you.”
“And I’d like to have you, Helen. I’ll be lost if we aren’t able to hit it off together. We’ve had such good times through high school and especially this last year.”
The final meeting of the seniors, as a class, was held in the assembly, the girls in their snow-white dresses and the boys all in their dark suits made a pleasing contrast. Some of them were visibly nervous while others remained unusually calm. To some it was a momentous event while others took it as the last step in a tiresome school career.
Margie Blake, still white and feeling none too strong, was near the door when Janet and Helen entered.
Janet started to speak, but Margie deliberately turned her back, and Janet, shocked and hurt, looked at her sharply.
“Now why do you suppose she did that?” she asked Helen.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, but you might as well know,” said Helen. “Margie is hinting around that she suspects you had something to do with the injury she suffered.”
“You mean that I contrived to have that piece of scenery fall on her just so I could get her part in the play?”
“That’s exactly what Margie’s hinting. Of course she isn’t saying that openly, but she doesn’t give you much room to guess what she means.”
“Then I’m going to have a word with Margie right now. That’s one thing I won’t stand for.” Janet’s face was flushed and she was furiously angry when she confronted Margie.
Margie’s eyes widened and Helen thought she saw her hands tremble just a little. Perhaps she surmised that Janet was on the warpath and that she was the cause of it.
“Margie, I’ve been told that you are insinuating I was responsible for the accident which forced you out of the play and gave me your place. Is that so?”
Janet’s words were low enough so that only Margie and Helen could hear, but there was a compelling force in them that would not be denied.
“Why, no, that’s not so. I never said you caused the accident.” Margie stammered and flushed hotly.
“You’ve no right to accuse me of this thing,” she added defiantly.
“I’ve a very good right if you are dropping hints about me and the accident the night of the play. If you’ve been doing that all I’ve got to say is that you’re smaller than I ever dreamed you could be. You’re simply below contempt.”
Janet whirled and left Margie with tears in her eyes. Helen paused a moment for Margie seemed about to speak.
“I’m sorry about what I’ve said,” Margie managed to say. “I guess I was a little indiscreet, but you tell Janet I won’t say anything else.”
“I’ll tell her and I think you’ll be a very wise girl if you decide to let the whole thing drop,” advised Helen, turning to rejoin Janet, who had gone to the other side of the room.
The principal was giving his final words of instruction.
“As your names are called for the presentation of diplomas, each of you will come from your places to the platform, receive a tube of paper, and return. After the exercises are over come to me in this room and I will present your real diplomas. If you can not come here after the close of the exercises, call at my office tomorrow.”
He paused a moment, then added, “and I should like to say that I am extremely proud of this class. I think it is the finest to graduate from Clarion High in the eight years I have been principal.”
“Which,” whispered Helen, “is quite a compliment, if you ask me. It’s the first he ever paid this class.”
“He sort of made up for the lack before by these last words,” smiled Janet.
Again they went onto the stage of the gymnasium, but this time not as actors and actresses in a play of make believe, but in the very serious business of graduating from high school.
The gymnasium was filled with parents and friends of the seniors. The air was close, portending the storm that was to break later. Fortunately the program was simple, the address by the superintendent of schools lasting only fifteen minutes. Then the names were called and one by one they went forward and when they came back their high school days were over.
It had been grand, being in school, decided Janet, and now she felt just a little scared. Life was ahead and life was so vast and uncomprehending and she knew it could be cold and cruel and merciless.
They bowed their heads at the benediction, there was a final swell of music from the orchestra and the lights in the gymnasium glared. It was over and Janet, in that moment, felt years older. She was a high school girl no longer....
Parents and friends of the graduates crowded around them and Janet saw her father beckoning.
“Get your diplomas,” he called. “We’ll meet you outside.”
Janet and Helen went up to the assembly where they turned in the paper scrolls which had been presented to them at the program. In return they received their real diplomas.
Outside they found their parents.
“We were tremendously proud of both of you,” said Janet’s mother. “You were by far the prettiest girls on the stage.”
“I’ll cast my vote in support of that statement,” put in Helen’s father, “and that’s from someone who should know a pretty girl when he sees one.”
They had planned a light supper at Thorne’s and all of them enjoyed the walk home for the air was close. Dark banks of clouds, illuminated once in a while by flashes of lightning, were mounting higher and higher in the west.
“Looks like we’ll get a real one tonight,” said Janet’s father, and the others agreed.
“Do you realize that the folks haven’t given us anything for graduation?” whispered Helen.
“Well, not exactly any concrete gift just now, but they’ve given me a lot of character and a sense of realization of the finer and honest things of life.”
“Oh, silly, of course I realize that, but Dad has been so mysterious today I know something is in the wind.”
When they reached Helen’s home they sat down to an informal supper in the dining room.
On two plates were envelopes, one marked “Janet” and the other “Helen.” Helen’s father was puffing rather furiously at his pipe as he watched the girls, their fingers clumsy from their haste, rip open the envelopes.
Long green slips of paper, looking very much like railroad tickets, came out of the envelopes. Helen was the first to read hers.
“Why, Dad,” she cried. “It’s a round trip ticket by airplane to Los Angeles.”
“So is mine,” gasped Janet. “What does this mean?”
Her father chuckling, nodded toward Henry Thorne.
“I’d say that it meant a round trip to Los Angeles. Also, if you’ll dig a little further into your envelopes, you’ll find reservations for the westbound plane out of Rubio just one week from tonight.”
“But Dad, we didn’t know anything about this,” gasped Helen.
“Of course not. It wouldn’t have been a surprise,” chuckled her father.
“Seriously though,” he added, “I liked your performances in the high school play and I’ve talked it all over with Janet’s folks and with mother here. You’re going back to Hollywood to spend the summer with me and this morning I contracted the production unit of our company which makes cowboy films and both of you are to have a chance in the cast of that picture. You’re Hollywood bound, girls.”
Chapter XVI
THRILLING HOURS
Janet was speechless and Helen was the first to give vent to her thoughts in words.
“Oh, Dad, it’s grand of you, but it doesn’t seem possible.” She looked at the ticket again, feeling it to see if it actually was real.
Tears brimmed into Janet’s eyes.
“I’m so happy I could cry,” she confessed. Then added quickly, “But I don’t know how I can thank you.”
“Don’t try now,” smiled Henry Thorne. “I’ll be more than repaid if you two make good in the western pictures I’m going to try to put you in.”
“But Dad, we’ve never had any experience like that,” protested Helen. “We’ll probably be awful flops.”
“Nonsense. It doesn’t take much acting ability to get by in the ‘horse operas’ as we call them. You just act natural, look pretty, and you’ll have all of the cowboys in the cast asking you for dates.”