CHAPTER X—A CRUSHING PENALTY
As Jerry had guessed, Constance Stevens’ absence from school was due to the fact that her foster-father had descended upon Gray Gables for a brief visit. He was delighted to see both Marjorie and Jerry. Constance insisted that they should remain to dinner, whereupon the tireless telephone was put into use and the two remained at Gray Gables, there to spend a most agreeable evening. At about eleven o’clock Hal Macy appeared to take them home in the Macy’s smart limousine. Thus, in the pleasure of being with her friends, Marjorie quite forgot the disagreeable incident that had earlier befallen herself and Jerry. Strange to say, Cæsar’s Commentaries, also, faded from recollection, and it was not until they were driving home that the estimable Roman was tardily remembered along with previous good intentions. “It’s unprepared for ours,” was Jerry’s doleful cry, thereby proving that the will to abolish slang was better than the deed.
Due to placing pleasure before duty, Marjorie felt it incumbent upon her to make an early entrance into school the next morning for the purpose of taking a hasty peep at her neglected text books. She was lucky, she told herself, in that the last hour in the morning would give her an opportunity to go over her Cæsar lesson. She, therefore, confined her attention to her English literature, deciding that she could somehow manage to slide through her French without absolute failure. Civil government would also have to take its chance for one recitation.
When at fifteen minutes past eleven she came into the study hall from French class and settled herself to begin the business of Latin, she was for once glad to lay hold on the fat, green volume devoted to the doings of the invincible Cæsar. Opening it, a faint cluck of surprise fell from her lips as she took from it a square, white envelope addressed to herself. It was unsealed and as she drew forth the folded paper which it held she wondered mightily how it had come to be there. She was very sure she had not placed it in the book. Her bewilderment deepened as she read:
“Miss Dean:
“After what occurred the other day in the principal’s office it is surprising that you were not expelled from Sanford High School. It proves you to be a special pet of Miss Archer. Such unfairness is contemptible in a principal. It should be exposed, along with your dishonesty. Sooner or later even that will be found out and you will receive your just deserts. It is a long lane that has no turning.
“The Observer.”
Marjorie emitted a faint sigh of pure amazement as she finished reading this sinister prediction of her ultimate downfall. It was a piece of rank absurdity, evidently penned by someone who had no intimate knowledge of inside facts. Still it filled her with a curious sense of horror. She loathed the very idea of an anonymous letter. Once before since she had first set foot in Sanford High the experience of receiving one of these mysterious communications had been hers. It had pertained to basket ball, however. She had easily guessed its origin and it had troubled her little. This letter was of an entirely different character. It proved that among the girls with whom she daily met and associated there was one, at least, who did not wish her well.
As she reread the spiteful message, her thoughts leaped to Rowena Farnham as the person most open to suspicion. Yet Rowena had made a direct attack upon her. Again there was Mignon. She was wholly capable of such a deed. Strangely enough, Marjorie was seized with the belief that neither girl was responsible for it. She did not know why she believed this to be true. She simply accepted it as such, and cudgelled her brain for another more plausible solution of the mystery.
As she studied it the more she became convinced that the writing was the same as that of the similarly signed letter Miss Archer had received. The stationery, too, was the same. The words, “The Observer,” were the crowning proof which entirely exonerated Rowena. She had certainly not written the first note. Therefore, she had not written the second. Marjorie was in a quandary as to whether or not she should go frankly to the principal and exhibit the letter. She felt that Miss Archer would wish to see it, and at once take the matter up. She could hardly charge Rowena with it, thereby lessening her chances of entering the school. This second note made no mention of Rowena. Its spitefulness was directed entirely toward Marjorie herself. As it pertained wholly to her, she believed that it might be better to keep the affair locked within her own breast. After all, it might amount to nothing. No doubt, Rowena had related her own version of the algebra problem to Mignon. Mignon was noted for her malicious powers of gossip. A garbled account on her part of the matter might have aroused some one of her few allies to this cowardly method of attack. Still this explanation would not cover the writing of the first letter.
Quite at sea regarding its source, Marjorie gave the distasteful missive an impatient little flip that sent it fluttering off her desk to the floor. Reaching down she lifted it, holding it away from her as though it were a noisome weed. She burned to tear it into bits, but an inner prompting stayed her destroying hands. Replacing it in the envelope, she tucked it inside her silk blouse, determining to file it away at home in case she needed it for future reference. She hoped, however, that it would never be needed. Whoever had slipped it into her Cæsar must have done so after she had left her desk on the previous afternoon, following the close of the session. She wished she knew those who had lingered in the study hall after half-past three. This she was not likely to learn. Her own intimate friends had all passed out of the study hall at the ringing of the closing bell. She resolved that she would make casual inquiries elsewhere in the hope of finding a clue.
During the rest of the week she pursued this course with tactful assiduousness, but she could discover nothing worth while. What she did learn, however, was that due to a strenuous appeal to the Board of Education on the part of Mr. Farnham, his daughter had been allowed, on strict promise of future good behavior, to try an entirely new set of examinations. Fortune must have attended her, for on the next Monday she appeared in the study hall as radiantly triumphant as though she had received a great honor, rather than a reluctant admission into the sophomore fold.
“Well, she got there!” hailed Jerry Macy in high disgust, happening to meet Marjorie in the corridor between classes on the morning of Rowena’s retarded arrival. “My father said they had quite a time about it. She got into school by just one vote. He wouldn’t tell me which way he voted, but he said he was glad she wasn’t his daughter.”
“I’m honestly glad for hers and her parents’ sake that she was allowed another trial.” Marjorie spoke with sincere earnestness. “She’s had a severe lesson. She may profit by it and get along without any more trouble.”
“Profit by nothing,” grumbled Jerry. “She can’t change her disposition any more than a cat can grow feathers or an ostrich whiskers. Row-ena, Scrapena, Fightena, Quarrelena she is and will be forever and forever. Let’s not talk about her. She makes me—I mean I feel somewhat languid whenever her name is mentioned.” Jerry delivered her polite emendation with irresistible drollery. “Did you know that there’s to be a junior basket ball try-out next Tuesday after school?”
“No.” Marjorie’s interest was aroused. “Who told you? It certainly hasn’t been announced.”
“Ellen Seymour told me. She’s going to help Miss Davis manage the team this year in Marcia Arnold’s place. I imagine she’ll do most of the managing. I guess Miss Davis had enough of basket ball last year. She told Ellen that it took up too much of her time. She knew, I guess, that the upper class girls wouldn’t relish her interference. Ellen says you must be sure to be at the try-out. She hopes you——” Jerry left off speaking and looked sheepish.
“Well, why don’t you finish? What does Ellen wish me to do?”
“You’ll find out at the try-out. Now don’t ask me any more questions about it.” Jerry’s cheerful grin belied her brusque words.
“You’re a very tantalizing person,” smiled Marjorie. “There goes the second bell. I’ll see you later.” She scudded away, wondering what it was that Jerry had stoutly refused to reveal. Evidently, it must be something of pleasant import, else Jerry would have frowned rather than smiled.
The next day, directly after opening exercises, Miss Merton dryly read out the official call to the try-out. It was received by the junior section with an audible joy which she sternly quenched. Miss Merton was in even less sympathy with “that rough-and-tumble game” than she was with the girls who elected to play it. It was directly due to her that Miss Davis had lost interest in it.
To those intimately interested in making the junior team, the Tuesday afternoon session seemed interminable. Eager eyes frequently consulted the moon-faced study-hall clock, as its hands traveled imperturbably toward the hour of reprieve. Would half-past three never come? At ten minutes past three Muriel Harding’s impatience vented itself in the writing of a heart-felt complaint to Marjorie. She wrote:
“This afternoon is one hundred years long. Darling Miss Merton wishes it was two hundred. The very idea that we are going to the try-out gives her pain. She hates herself, but she hates basket ball worse. If I should invite her to the try-out she would gobble me up. So I shall not risk my precious self. You may do the inviting.”
This uncomplimentary tribute to Miss Merton was whisked successfully down the section and into Marjorie’s hands. As note-passing was obnoxious to the crabbed teacher, Muriel had neither addressed nor signed it. She had craftily whispered her instructions to the girl ahead of her, who had obligingly repeated them to the next and so on down the row. Unfortunately, Miss Merton’s eyes had spied it on its journey. She instantly left her desk to pounce upon it at the moment it was delivered into Marjorie’s keeping.
“You may give me that note, Miss Dean,” she thundered, extending a thin, rigid hand.
“Pardon me, Miss Merton, but this note is for me.” Her fingers closing about it, Marjorie lifted resolute, brown eyes to the disagreeable face above her.
“Give it to me instantly. You are an impertinent young woman.” Miss Merton glared down as though quite ready to take Marjorie by the shoulders and shake her.
Back in her own seat, Muriel Harding was divided between admiration for Marjorie and fear that she would yield to Miss Merton’s demand. Despite lack of signature, the latter would have little trouble in identifying the writer were she given a chance to read the note. Muriel saw trouble looming darkly on her horizon.
“I am sorry you think me impertinent. I do not mean to be.” The soft voice rang with quiet decision. “But I cannot give you this note.” Marjorie calmly put the note in her blouse, and, folding her hands, awaited the storm.
“You will stay here to-night until you give it to me,” decreed Miss Merton grimly. Beaten for the time, she stalked back to her desk, quite aware that she could hardly have imposed a more crushing penalty. True, her effort to obtain the note had been fruitless, but one thing was patent: Marjorie Dean would not be present at the junior basket ball try-out.
CHAPTER XI—AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR
Left to herself for a brief respite, Marjorie drew out the note and read it. An expression of amused consternation flashed into her eyes as she took in its spirit. Knowing the writing to be Muriel’s she was now glad she had stood her ground. Note writing was not forbidden in Sanford High and never had been. Miss Merton alone, of all the teachers, strenuously opposed it. To be sure, it was not regarded by them with special favor. Nevertheless, in the class-rooms no one was ever taken to task for it unless it seriously interfered with the recitation. Marjorie did not know Miss Archer’s views on the subject, but she believed her principal too great-minded to cavil at such trifles.
The instant she had finished reading the note, she reduced it to unreadable bits, leaving them in plain sight on her desk. Not by so much as a backward glance did she betray the writer. Knowing Miss Merton to be on the alert, she took no chances. Should the latter send her to Miss Archer, she would very quickly express herself on the subject. As a junior she believed that the time for treating her as a member of the primary grade had long since passed.
It was not until she had effectually blocked all possibility of the note falling into Miss Merton’s possession that she remembered the try-out. Her heart sank as she recalled what a lengthy, lonely stay in the study hall meant. The try-out would go on without her. She would lose all chance of obtaining a place on the junior team. Her changeful face paled a trifle as she sadly accepted this dire disaster to her hopes. If only Muriel had not written that note.
The first closing bell sent a tremor of despair to her heavy heart. She wondered how long Miss Merton would detain her. She had said, “You will stay here to-night until you give it to me.” Even in the midst of misfortune the edict took a humorous turn. She had a vision of herself and Miss Merton keeping a lonely, all-night vigil in the study hall.
At the second bell the long lines of girls began a decorous filing down the aisles to the great doors. Marjorie watched them go, vainly pondering on why, thus far, her junior year had been so filled with mishaps. A bad beginning sometimes made a good ending was her only comforting reflection. She hoped that in her case it would prove true.
“Why are you staying, Miss Harding?” rasped forth Miss Merton when the big room had at last emptied itself.
Marjorie faced about with a start. She had not reckoned on this. She made a desperate sign to Muriel to go. Muriel merely shook an obstinate head. Then she announced bravely, “I wrote that note to Miss Dean.”
“Then you may remain in your seat,” snapped the frowning teacher. “Miss Dean, do you intend to give me that note?”
“I have destroyed it,” came the calm reply.
“You are determined to defy me, I see. Very well, you may tell me the contents of it. I saw you read it after I had returned to my desk.”
“I have nothing to say,” Marjorie replied with terse obstinacy.
“Miss Harding, you may tell me what you wrote.” Miss Merton suddenly swung her attack from Marjorie to Muriel.
“I will not.” Muriel spoke with hot decision. “Neither Miss Dean nor I are grammar school children. I see no reason why we should be treated as such. I think it very ridiculous, and I will not submit to it. You may send me to Miss Archer if you like. I am quite ready to say to her what I have just said to you.”
As Muriel’s challenge of defiance cut the storm-laden atmosphere, a most unexpected thing happened. Almost as if the mere mention of her name had served to bring her to the scene, Miss Archer walked into the study hall. She had come in time to catch Muriel’s last sentence, and her quick faculties had leaped to conclusion.
“What is it that you are quite ready to say to me, Miss Harding?” was her grave interrogation.
Miss Merton’s sallow cheeks took on a lively tinge of red. She was not specially anxious to bring Miss Archer into the discussion. Had the recipient of the note been other than Marjorie Dean, she would have allowed the incident to pass with a caustic rebuke. But her dislike for the winsome girl was deep-rooted. She could never resist the slightest opportunity to vent it publicly.
“I wrote a note to Miss Dean, Miss Archer,” burst forth Muriel. “Miss Merton asked Miss Dean for it and she wouldn’t give it to her. So Miss Merton said she must stay here until she did. Miss Dean tore the note up. I stayed because I wrote it. Miss Merton says we must tell her what was in that note. I won’t do it. Neither will Marjorie. I just said that I did not think we ought to be treated like grammar school children. I said, too, that I would be willing to say so to you, and I have.”
Miss Archer’s quizzical gaze traveled from Muriel’s flushed face to Marjorie’s composed features. Here was, indeed, a problem in that unknown quantity, girl nature. Miss Archer was too thoroughly acquainted with the ways of girls not to comprehend what lay beneath this out and out defiance of Miss Merton’s commands. She understood, if Miss Merton did not, or would not, the rather overdrawn sense of school-girl honor which prompted the rebellion. She knew that except in extreme cases, there was little to be obtained by using force. It was all too likely to defeat its own object.
“The attitude of these two young women toward me is insufferable.” Miss Merton now took up a harsh stand. She did not intend the principal should allow the matter to be passed over lightly. “Miss Dean, in particular, has been most disrespectful. In fact, ever since she became a pupil of this school she has derived an especial delight from annoying me.”
Miss Archer’s face wore an inscrutable expression as she listened. Years of association with Miss Merton had taught her to read between the lines. Yet she knew she must now proceed with the utmost diplomacy. As a teacher Miss Merton was entitled to the respect of her pupils. She had an inner conviction, however, that the irate woman was piling injustice upon Marjorie’s shoulders. She herself was beginning to understand the girl’s motives could never be classed as unworthy. Young in years, she possessed already a breadth of mind which Miss Merton could never hope to attain.
“You are entitled to the utmost respect on the part of your pupils, Miss Merton,” she levelly acknowledged. “I am sorry to hear bad reports of any of my pupils. I am sure that Miss Harding and Miss Dean will rectify the matter with an apology. As for the note, perhaps it might be wiser to allow the matter to drop.”
“Girls,” she now addressed the belligerents, “it seems to me that, as long as note-writing has proved a source of trouble to you, you might better give up the practice. Let me ask you a question. Was there any grave and important reason for writing that note?”
Muriel Harding hung her head. “No, Miss Archer,” came her low answer.
Marjorie’s pale face took on a faint glow of pink. “It was not necessary,” she admitted.
“Very well. You have both agreed that it was unnecessary. My advice to you is to discontinue the practice. I must insist that both of you make apology to Miss Merton for the annoyance you have caused.”
“Miss Merton, I regret that you should have been annoyed by me.” Marjorie made an immediate and dignified apology, which was perfectly sincere on her part. For more reasons than one she deplored the annoyance.
Muriel, however, hesitated a second or two before committing herself. Suddenly it dawned upon her that Miss Archer’s demand for apology had a deeper significance. She thereupon made haste to repeat Marjorie’s exact words.
Miss Merton received both apologetic speeches in black silence. She was inwardly furious with the principal, not only for her unexpected intrusion, but for the lax manner in which she had administered discipline. At least, Miss Merton considered it distinctly lax. Still, she knew that it would be in bad taste to try to overrule the principal’s decision. “You are dismissed,” she said stiffly. “See to it that you conduct yourselves properly hereafter.” She could not resist this one touch of authority.
The ex-culprits lost no time in leaving the study hall behind them. Not a word passed between them until the door of the junior locker room had closed upon them. Their eyes meeting, they burst into laughter, discreetly subdued, but most expressive of their feelings. Each mind held the same thought. What would Miss Merton have said had she read the note?
CHAPTER XII—A DOUBTFUL VICTORY
“Marjorie Dean, you are true blue!” exclaimed Muriel. “Whatever possessed me to write that awful note? If Miss Merton had read it—well, you can guess what would have happened. I shook in my shoes when I heard her ask you for it.”
“I’m glad I didn’t give it to her.” An angry sparkle leaped into Marjorie’s soft eyes. “She only made a fuss about it because it was I who had it. I think Miss Archer understood that. I love her for it. She treats us always as though we were young women; not as naughty children. But we mustn’t stand here. It’s four o’clock now. I am afraid we won’t have a chance to play. Only about fifteen or twenty juniors are going to try for the team. It may be made already.” Marjorie picked up the bag which contained her basket ball suit and tennis shoes.
“Let us hustle along then,” urged Muriel. Seizing her friend by one hand, her luggage in the other, the two raced for the gymnasium, hoping against hope.
“It’s all over.” Muriel cried out in disappointment as they entered the great room.
“I am afraid so,” faltered Marjorie, as she noted the group of bloomer-clad girls standing idle at one end of the gymnasium. Here and there about the floor were others in uniform. Altogether she counted eighteen. Ellen Seymour and two other seniors were seated on the platform, their chairs drawn together, their attention apparently fixed on a pad on Ellen’s knee. Spectators had been firmly but politely denied admission. Ellen had pronounced them a detriment to the try-out and elected that they should remain away.
“Hello, Marjorie Dean,” joyfully called out Harriet Delaney. As she hailed Marjorie she ran toward the two girls. “We thought you were lost to us forever. Where were you, Muriel? You surely didn’t have to stay.”
“Did you make the team?” was Muriel’s excited query.
“Not yet.” Harriet’s eyes twinkled. “The try-out hasn’t begun yet.”
“Hasn’t begun!” echoed two voices.
“No. Ellen was awfully cross about the way Miss Merton acted, so she said we’d wait for Marjorie. Then, when Muriel didn’t appear, she said, that if neither of you materialized, she would have the try-out put off until to-morrow. Miss Davis is so busy with that new system of gymnastics she’s going to adopt this year that she’s left basket ball to Ellen. I don’t see how she could help herself, though. Last year the juniors and seniors ran their own teams.”
“Ellen’s a dear,” exulted Muriel. “We are lucky to have her for manager. Marjorie and I will be her grateful slaves for the rest of the year. I wrote that note; so, naturally, I had to stay and face the music.”
“You did!” It was Harriet who now registered surprise. “What was in it?”
Muriel giggled. She could now afford to laugh. “Oh, a lot of sweet things about Miss Merton. You can guess just how sweet they were.”
“Goodness!” breathed Harriet. “No wonder Marjorie wouldn’t give it up. She—why, she’s gone!”
Marjorie had stopped only to greet Harriet. While Muriel was explaining matters, she slipped away to the platform where Ellen Seymour sat. “It was splendid in you, Ellen!” she burst forth, as she reached the senior’s side. “Thank you, ever so much.”
“Hurrah! Here’s Marjorie.” Ellen sprang up, her pleasant face breaking into a smile. “I’m so glad you came at last, and so sorry for what happened. You must tell me how you came out. But not now. We shall have to hustle to make up for lost time. I suppose you know Miss Elbert and Miss Horner. No?” Ellen promptly performed introductions.
“Pleased to meet you,” nodded both young women. Neither looked specially delighted. Miss Elbert, a small, plump girl with near-sighted, gray eyes, bowed in reserved fashion. Miss Horner, a rather pretty brunette, acknowledged the introduction with languid grace. Marjorie had long known both by sight. On two different occasions she had been introduced to Miss Horner. Afterward, on meeting her in the street, the latter had made no sign of recognition.
“I suppose you are satisfied now, Ellen,” drawled Miss Horner sweetly. “You are lucky, Miss Dean, to have Ellen for a champion. She insisted that we must wait for you.”
“I am very grateful to her,” Marjorie made courteous reply. Had there lurked a touch of sarcasm in the other’s polite comment?
“Miss Merton is altogether too fussy,” remarked Miss Elbert. Her blunt tone quite belied her reserved nod. “She tried that with me last year. It didn’t work, though.” Her air of constraint vanished in a bright glance, which indicated friendliness.
“You must remember that she has a great deal to try her,” reminded Miss Horner softly.
Again Marjorie thought she sensed hostility. She laid it to the supposition that Miss Horner was, perhaps, a trifle peevish at being delayed. Yet she could not resist the quiet comment, “Miss Merton is also very trying.”
“Of course she is,” agreed Ellen warmly. “You know it as well as we do, Charlotte Horner. You have no cause to love her. Just remember how cranky she was to you during your freshman year.”
“That was a long time ago,” shrugged the senior. “I understand her much better now than then.” The placid answer held a suspicion of condescending approval of Miss Merton.
“I’m glad someone does,” flung back Ellen with careless good humor. “Hurry along, Marjorie, and get into your basket ball suit. I shouldn’t have kept you talking.” Drawing her aside, she whispered: “I’d rather see you play center on the team than any girl I know.”
“It seems to me, Ellen,” drawled Charlotte Horner, as her indolent gaze followed Marjorie across the floor to the dressing room, “that you are babying that Miss Dean entirely too much. Someone told me the other day that she has a bad attack of swelled head. I must say, I think her self-opinionated. She answered me very pertly.”
“If you mean her remark about Miss Merton, she only spoke the truth,” defended Ellen hotly, completely astonished by this unexpected attack on Marjorie. “She is not in the least self-opinionated nor vain. It’s remarkable that she isn’t. She is very pretty and awfully popular.”
“Glad you told me,” murmured the other, lazily unbelieving. “I know several girls with whom she is not particularly popular.”
To this Ellen made no response. With vexation at her own stupidity, she now remembered too late that Charlotte Horner had always been rather friendly with Mignon La Salle. Remembering only Charlotte’s undeniable prowess as a basket ball player, she had asked her to act with herself and Leila Elbert as one of the three judges at the try-out. This explained why Charlotte had not been in favor of postponing the try-out in case Marjorie were detained indefinitely. Ellen found herself hoping that personal prejudice would not influence Charlotte to decry Marjorie’s work on the floor.
“I think Miss Dean is very nice.” It was Leila Elbert who made this announcement. Her reserved manner had arisen merely from shyness. She was a quiet, diffident girl, who, beyond an enthusiasm for basket ball, had mixed little with the social side of high school. She was an expert player who had been on the same team with Ellen during her freshman, sophomore and junior years. Accordingly, she was eminently fitted to judge the merits of the respective contestants.
“That’s sweet in you.” Ellen flashed her a grateful look. It would be two against one in Marjorie’s favor.
Within ten minutes after seeking the dressing room Marjorie issued from it ready for the fray, wearing her sophomore basket ball uniform. Running up to Ellen she announced: “I am ready. So is Muriel.” In a lower tone she added: “It was dear in you to wish me well.” Then she trotted over and joined the contestants, who had gradually collected in one spot.
“All right.” Ellen left the platform and approached the fruitful material for junior honors. “Girls,” she began, with an elaborate bow, “behold your stern manager.”
She was interrupted by giggling applause. Cheerful Ellen Seymour was beloved throughout Sanford High School.
“Much obliged,” she nodded gaily. “As I was saying when interrupted by your heart-felt appreciation, I am your manager. This year there will be no senior team. The seniors have soared to heights beyond mere basket ball. I had to soar with them, though I wasn’t in a soaring mood. Since I can’t play the good old game alone, I’ve decided to bury my disappointment in managership. Of course, you know that you can’t all play. So if you’re not chosen, don’t be disappointed. It’s going to be an absolutely fair try-out. If you’re chosen, it is because you are a better player than the girl who isn’t. Now please line up until I count you over.”
It was a nondescript line that whipped itself promptly into position. There were the five gray-clad girls who had made up Mignon La Salle’s famous team. There were also the five black-garbed players who had comprised Marjorie’s squad. Besides these were ten new applicants in blue gymnasium suits who had not been fortunate enough to make either of the two teams that had striven against each other in the sophomore year. These girls had decided to try again, hoping that better luck would be theirs.
Marjorie thrilled with excitement as she cast a quick glance up and down the line. Every face was set in determined fashion. It was going to be much harder than ever before to make the team.
Ellen Seymour walked up and down the row of girls with the air of a general. She was shrewdly calculating the best plan of action. It would hardly be fair to try out the black and scarlet girls against the grays, leaving the other ten of lesser experience to play against each other. Among the new girls there was, undoubtedly, some excellent material which contact with the regular players was sure to bring out. She, therefore, chose five blues to play against two grays and three black and scarlet girls. Mignon and Daisy Griggs represented the grays, Marjorie, Susan and Harriet Delaney the black and scarlet.
Clearing the floor of the others, Ellen signaled the two teams to their places and soon had the ball in play. It seemed very strange to Marjorie to find herself once more on the same team with Mignon La Salle. She was too busy attending to her own affairs, however, to give it more than a passing thought. Centering her whole mind on her work she played with her usual snap and brilliancy.
After twenty minutes’ energetic work, the warning whistle sounded retreat. Then the other ten girls remaining were ordered to the floor to show what they could do. When, after the same allowance of time, they had been called off, the three judges went into consultation with the result that ten names were struck from the list Ellen held. These names Ellen read out, expressing a regret for the failure of their owners to make good that was in a measure quite consoling. They left the floor to their more fortunate sisters apparently with the best possible grace, considering the disappointment that was theirs.
There were still left Susan, Muriel, Marjorie, Mignon, Daisy Griggs and Anne Easton of the seasoned teams. The other were four of the blue-clad girls who had done surprisingly well. These ten were again divided into opposing fives and went at it with a will.
T-r-ill! Ellen’s whistle at last called an end to the spirited fray. The girls pattered off the playing floor. Grouped together they breathlessly awaited the verdict.
This time it was longer in coming. Up on the judge’s stand, Ellen Seymour found herself participating in the wrangle with Charlotte Horner, which she had anticipated. But Marjorie was not alone subject of it. It was Mignon’s basket ball future, too, that now tottered. Four names had been struck off the list of ten. It lay between Mignon and Marjorie Dean as to whom the fifth should be.
“Mignon is a better player than this Dean girl,” sharply argued Charlotte Horner. “But poor Mignon simply wasn’t up to her usual form to-day.”
“But it’s to-day that counts, else why have a try-out?” protested Ellen. “Marjorie has completely outplayed her in this last test. I consider Marjorie the better player at any time. She is reliable. Mignon isn’t. I insist that Marjorie shall have the position. I think she’s the best player of the whole team.”
“And I insist that Mignon must have it.” In her anger Charlotte forgot her usual languid drawl.
“It rests with Leila.” Ellen shrugged her shoulders. “What is your opinion, Leila?”
“Miss Dean is the better player,” declared Leila stolidly. “Anyone can see that.”
“Two against one. The ayes have it.” Ellen drew a firm pencil through Mignon’s name.
And thus Marjorie Dean won a victory over Mignon La Salle, which was destined to bring her a great deal of unhappiness.
CHAPTER XIII—UNSEEN; UNKNOWN; UNGUESSED
Outside the school building Jerry Macy and Irma Linton were holding a patient vigil. Not permitted to witness the try-out they had declared their intention of waiting across the street for their friends. Confidently expecting that their wait would be long, they had set off for Sargent’s directly after school, there to while away at least a part of the time. It was twenty minutes after four when they returned to the school and determinedly perched themselves upon the top step of the long flight where they proposed to remain stationed until the try-out should be over. As ardent fans, they had a lively curiosity to know as soon as possible the results of the contest. They were also deeply concerned as to what had transpired between Marjorie and Miss Merton.
“Good gracious!” grumbled Jerry, as she frowningly consulted her wrist watch. “When do you suppose it will be over? It’s half-past five now. I hope——”
“Hark!” Irma raised a warning hand. “I hear voices. Here they come at last.”
As she spoke the heavy door behind her swung open. One after another the contestants began issuing forth to unite into little groups as they passed down the steps to the street. Jerry and Irma were now on their feet eagerly watching for their friends. Jerry’s shrewd power of observation had already been put to good use. Thus far she glimpsed defeat in the faces of those who passed. Among them was Mignon La Salle. Her arm linked in that of Charlotte Horner, the French girl was carrying on a low-toned monologue, the very nature of which could be read in the stormy play of her lowering features.
Jerry gave Irma a significant nudge as Mignon switched past them without sign of recognition. Irma nodded slightly to show that she understood its import. She, too, had guessed that Mignon had not made the team.
“At last!” Jerry sighed relief, as Marjorie stepped across the threshold, followed by Susan, Muriel and Daisy Griggs. “What’s the good word?” She hailed.
“We are the real people,” boasted Muriel Harding, a throbbing note of triumph in her light tones. “Marjorie, Susan, Daisy and I made the team. The fifth girl is Rita Talbot. She was the only one of the blues chosen. Poor Harriet didn’t make it. Neither did Esther. Harriet’s been chosen as a sub, though. So has that queer little green-eyed Warner girl. She’s such a quiet mouse, I never even dreamed she could play basket ball. She can, though.” Muriel rattled off all this, hardly stopping to take breath.
“So dear Miss Merton changed her mind,” burst forth Jerry irrelevantly. “How long did she keep you, Marjorie? What did she say?” They had now progressed as far as the sidewalk and had halted there to talk.
Marjorie entered into brief details, giving Muriel the lion’s share of credit for her blunt explanation to Miss Archer. “If Muriel hadn’t spoken so plainly, Miss Archer might not have seen things in the right light,” she ended.
“Don’t you believe it,” disagreed Jerry. “Miss Archer knows Miss Merton like a book. It’s a real comfort to have a principal like her. Say, I’ll bet Mignon is so mad she can’t see straight. You should have seen her when she passed us. She was talking a blue streak to that Miss Horner. She was one of the judges, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.” Marjorie’s face clouded at mention of the languidly spoken senior. It now occurred to her that she had not been at fault in believing that Charlotte Horner disliked her. No doubt Mignon was the motive for her dislike. Like Ellen, she, too, tardily recalled that the two had been occasionally seen together last year. It might account also for the emphatic wagging of heads that had gone on among the three judges before the final result of the try-out had been announced.
“I suppose you are going to play the sophomores.” Irma’s soft intonation brought Marjorie out of her brown study.
“Of course.” It was Daisy Griggs who answered. “They are to have their try-out to-morrow afternoon. I don’t believe we will be ready to play them before November. We have a lot of practice ahead of us. We’ll have to have new suits, too. But we won’t know until we have a meeting what colors to choose. We ought to ask the subs what they’d like. We can’t very well go by the junior colors this year. They are deep crimson and white, you know. We couldn’t possibly have white suits with a crimson J, and crimson suits wouldn’t be pretty, either.”
“I think they would,” put in Muriel Harding stoutly. “We could have our suits of a little darker crimson than the class color. They would be stunning with a white J on the blouse and a wide, rolling collar of white broadcloth. Besides, crimson is a victorious color. We’d just have to win. It would be inspiring.”
“It sounds good to me,” approved Susan. “They’d certainly be different from any we’ve ever had. We could all put together and buy the cloth. Then have them made by one person instead of each going to our own dressmaker.”
“I think that would be nice,” nodded Marjorie. “But we want to please Daisy, too, so perhaps——”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Just so they aren’t a glaring red,” hastily amended Daisy. “I suppose the subs will want to have new suits, too. We ought to call a meeting of the team some time this week. That reminds me, we don’t know yet who is to be captain. You ought to be, Marjorie. I think Ellen will ask you.”
“No.” Marjorie shook a decided head. “To be given center is honor enough for me. Girls, I’d love to have Muriel for captain. She’d be simply splendid.”
“Oh, no, not me,” protested Muriel in ungrammatical confusion. Nevertheless, she flushed with pleasure at Marjorie’s generous proposal.
“That would be fine,” asserted Susan Atwell heartily. She was not in the least jealous because Marjorie had not proposed her for the honor. She had long since learned that Marjorie Dean was incapable of showing favoritism. She had selected Muriel strictly with the good of the team in mind.
“Let’s ask Ellen if we can’t have Muriel,” said Daisy Griggs earnestly.
“You see three of us are of the same mind,” Marjorie pointed out with a smile. “I know Rita will say so, too. But where are she and Harriet?”
“Still in the gym, I guess, with Ellen. Harriet lives next door to Ellen,” reminded Susan. “They’ll be along presently.”
“I can’t wait for them,” Marjorie demurred. “It’s almost six. Captain will wonder why I’m so late. Come on, Jerry and Irma,” she called. Jerry and Irma had wandered a little away from the group and were deeply engaged in earnest discussion. “How many of you are going our way?”
“I’m going to my aunt’s for dinner,” said Muriel. “So I’ll say good-bye. Daisy goes my way, too. See you to-morrow. Come along, Daisy.”
Left to themselves, Susan, Marjorie, Irma and Jerry swung off toward home, four abreast.
“See here, Marjorie,” began Jerry. “You want to look out for Mignon. I told you how mad she looked when she passed us. Irma saw, too. She’ll try to do something to get you off the team and herself on. See if she doesn’t.”
“I’m not going to bother my head about her,” Marjorie made careless reply. “She has never really hurt anyone she’s tried to hurt since I’ve known her. With Ellen Seymour managing the teams, we are all sure of fair play.”
“Don’t be too sure,” muttered Jerry. She added in a louder tone, “Ellen’s not much protection with Mignon on the job. If she can’t play, she’ll try to fix it so somebody else can’t. Not you, perhaps. Anyway, it won’t do any harm for you to keep your eyes open.”
“Don’t croak, Jeremiah.” Marjorie laid a playful hand on Jerry’s lips. “Didn’t I tell you long ago that I should not allow Mignon La Salle to trouble me this year? I am going to keep at a safe distance from her.”
“I hope you stick to that,” was Jerry’s ungracious retort. Under her breath she added, “but I doubt it.”
Jerry Macy’s well-meant warning was destined, however, to come back most forcibly to Marjorie no later than the following morning. As she ran down the steps of her home and on down the walk on her way to school, she encountered the postman at the gate. He handed her two letters, which she received with a gurgle of girlish delight. On the top envelope she had glimpsed Mary’s familiar script. The gurgle changed to a dismayed gasp as she examined the other. Only too quickly had she recognized the handwriting. Shoving Mary’s letter into the pocket of her pretty tan coat, she hastily opened the other envelope. Her evil genius had again come to life. A wave of hot resentment swept her as she unfolded the one sheet of heavy white paper and read:
“Miss Dean:
“No doubt you think yourself very clever to have made the junior team. You could never have done so had partiality not been shown. Others at the try-out were much more worthy of the choice. You believe because you can dress like a doll and are popular with a few rattle-brained girls that everyone likes you. But you are mistaken. A few persons, at least, know how vain and silly and deceitful you are. You pretend to hate snobbery, but you are a snob. Some day everyone will know you for what you really are. The time is not far off. Beware.
“The Observer.”
Turning, Marjorie went slowly back to the house and climbed the stairs to her room. Pausing before her desk, she opened it. From a pigeon-hole she extracted another letter. Carefully she compared it with the one that had come by post. Yes, they must have both emanated from the same source. Stationery, writing and signature were unmistakable proofs. With a sigh she shoved them both into the pigeon-hole. Who could her mysterious enemy be? These letters were certainly of the variety she had heard classed as “poison pen.”
Thus far she had flouted the idea of Mignon La Salle as the writer of them. Now she was forced to wonder if she had been wrong. Was it possible that Mignon had lurked outside Miss Archer’s office on the morning when she had solved the problem for Rowena Farnham? If this were so, the letter Miss Archer had received might then be accredited to her, as well as the two now in her desk. Barring Rowena Farnham, Marjorie knew no one else who would be likely to engage in such a despicable enterprise. If Mignon were guilty of this, Jerry Macy’s warning had not been an idle one. It, therefore, behooved her, Marjorie Dean, to be on her guard. Yet how could she guard herself against a shadow, an enemy unseen; unknown; unguessed?
CHAPTER XIV—A SOLDIER IN EARNEST
Absorbed in a vain attempt to find a clue to the mysterious prophesier of evil, Marjorie forgot Mary Raymond’s letter until she happened to thrust a hand into her coat pocket on the way home from school at noon. Mary’s long, cheery epistle partially atoned for the hateful sentiments expressed by the unknown. On her return home in the afternoon, a second comforter was accorded her in a letter from Constance Stevens. The day after Marjorie and Jerry had spent the evening at Gray Gables Mr. Stevens had gone to New York. Constance had accompanied him.
Since the great change had taken place in the girl’s life her school days had been more or less broken. Still she managed to keep up in her classes despite frequent short absences from school. It was tacitly understood, not only by Miss Archer, but also by Constance’s other teachers, that she intended to study for a grand opera début as soon as her high school days were over. The mere possession of so remarkable a voice as was hers rather set her apart in some indefinite fashion from her schoolmates. Where others would have been taken to strict account for absence, she was allowed an unusual amount of consideration. Undoubtedly, the fact that when actually in school she invariably acquitted herself with credit in her various studies had much to do with the leniency accorded her. From a very humble person, she was rapidly becoming a personage from whom Sanford expected one day to hear great things.
Marjorie Dean felt Constance’s absences more keenly than anyone else. She had been particularly lonesome for her friend during this latest one, and the news that Constance would return to Sanford and to school on the following week banished for the time the shadow of the morning’s unpleasant incident.
“Constance will be home on Sunday, Captain,” she caroled gleefully, as she danced about the living room by way of expressing her jubilation.
“I am glad to hear it. You really need the child to cheer you up. You’ve been looking rather solemn lately, my dear. Aren’t you happy in your school? Sit down here and give an account of yourself,” commanded Mrs. Dean with a smile.
“Oh, yes.” The answer was accompanied by a faint sigh, as Marjorie curled up on the floor beside her mother. “So far, this has been rather a queer year, though. Nothing very pleasant has happened except basket ball. That’s always a joy. Our team is doing beautifully. We are to play the sophomores on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. It’s going to be a real tussle. Ellen Seymour says there are some great players among the sophs. You’ll come to the game, Captain?”
“I suppose I must. You consider me a loyal fan. That means I must live up to my reputation. By the way, Lieutenant, did that girl who made you so much trouble enter high school? You never told me.”
“You mean Rowena Farnham? Yes; she was allowed to try another set of examinations. Jerry Macy said she won the chance by only one vote. Jerry’s father’s a member of the Board. I wouldn’t tell anyone else but you, though, about that one vote. She is a sophomore now. I see her in the study hall, but we never speak. The girls say she is quite popular with the sophs. I suppose she’s trying hard to make up her lost ground.” Marjorie’s inflection was slightly bored. She felt that she had small cause for interest in Rowena. She had never told her mother of the latter’s attack on herself and Jerry. She preferred not to think of it, much less talk of it. To her it had seemed utterly senseless, as well as cheap.
“And how is Mignon La Salle doing?” questioned Mrs. Dean. “I haven’t heard you mention her, either. I must say I am very glad that you and she are not likely to be thrown together again. Poor little Mary made a bad mistake last year. It is wonderful that things ever worked out as well as they did.” Mrs. Dean’s face grew stern as she recalled the tangle in which Mary’s obstinacy had involved her daughter.
“Oh, Mignon has found a friend in Rowena Farnham. They go together all the time. Jerry says they will soon fall out. I am sure they are welcome to chum together, if they choose.” Marjorie shrugged her shoulders as though desirous of dismissing both girls from her thoughts.
“Jerry is quite likely to be a true prophet,” commented Mrs. Dean. “She is a very wise girl, but decidedly slangy. I cannot understand why a girl brought up in her surroundings should be so thoroughly addicted to slang.”
“She’s trying awfully hard not to use it.” Recalling Jerry’s recent efforts to speak more elegant English, Marjorie laughed outright. “She’s so funny, Captain. If any other girl I know used slang as she does, I wouldn’t like it. But Jerry! Well, she’s different. Next to Connie and Mary I love her best of all my friends. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“She is a very fine girl, in spite of her brusque ways,” praised Mrs. Dean. “General is fond of her, too.” She added this little tribute lest Marjorie might feel that she had been unduly critical. She understood the fact that Marjorie’s friends were sacred to her and on that account rarely found fault with them. Marjorie could be trusted to choose her associates wisely. Those to whom her sympathies went out usually proved themselves worthy of her regard. Motherly anxiety alone had prompted Mrs. Dean to draw her daughter out with a view toward learning the cause of Marjorie’s recent air of wistful preoccupation. Daily it had become more noticeable. If a repetition of last year’s sorrows threatened her only child, Mrs. Dean did not propose to be kept in the dark until it became well-nigh impossible to adjust matters.
Secretly Marjorie was aware of this anxiety on her mother’s part. She felt that she ought to show her Captain the sinister letters she had received, yet she was loath to do so. Her mother’s inquiry concerning Mignon had caused her to reflect uneasily that now if ever was the moment for unburdening her mind. “Captain,” she began, “you know that something is bothering me, don’t you?”
“Yes. I have been hoping you would tell me.” Mrs. Dean laid an encouraging hand on the drooping, brown head against her knee.
“Wait a minute.” Imbued with a desperate energy, Marjorie sprang to her feet and ran from the room. She soon returned, the disturbing letters clutched tightly in one hand. “I wish you to read these,” she said. Tendering them to her mother, she drew up a chair opposite Mrs. Dean and sat down.
Silence hung over the cheerful room while Mrs. Dean acquainted herself with the cause of Marjorie’s perturbation. Contempt filled her voice as she finally said: “A most despicable bit of work, Lieutenant. The writer had good reason to withhold her true name. So this explains the solemn face you have been wearing of late. I wouldn’t take it very deeply to heart, my dear. Whoever wrote these letters must possess a most cowardly nature.”
“That’s just what I think,” nodded Marjorie. “You see it really started with the letter Miss Archer received. You know, the one about the algebra problem. The only person I can really suspect of writing any of them is Mignon. But she’s not this sort of coward. Besides, I don’t believe she’d write just this kind of letter. What sort of person do you think would, Captain?”
Before answering, Mrs. Dean thoughtfully reread both letters. “It is hard to say,” she mused. “It looks to me as though the writer of them might have been prompted by jealousy. The second one in particular is full of jealous spite. I suppose you don’t care to let Miss Archer see them.”
“No.” Marjorie shook a vehement head. “I’d rather worry through without that. Perhaps there won’t be any more of them. I hope not. Anyway, I’m glad I told you about them. If another does come, I can bring it to you and not feel so bad over it as if I had to think things out alone. Even if I knew this very minute who wrote them, I don’t know what I’d do about it. It would depend upon who the girl was, whether or not I’d say anything to her. It’s all very mysterious and aggravating, isn’t it?” she added wistfully.
“It’s far worse than that.” Mrs. Dean’s lips set in a displeased line. “Sanford High School appears to harbor some very peculiar girls. I can’t imagine any such thing happening to you at Franklin High. I don’t like it at all. If the rest of your junior year is going to be like this, you might better go away to a good preparatory school.”
“Oh, Captain, don’t say that!” Marjorie cried out in distress. “I couldn’t bear to leave you and General and Sanford High. I’d be terribly unhappy away from home. Please say you didn’t really mean that.” Tears lurked in her pleading tones.
“Now, now, Lieutenant,” came the soothing reply, “don’t be so ready to run out to meet calamity. I only suggested your going away as a means of taking you out of these pits you seem always innocently to be tumbling into. You know that General and I could hardly get along without our girl. It is of your welfare I am thinking.”
Marjorie slipped to her mother’s side and wound coaxing arms about her. “I was afraid this would hurt you. That’s why I hated to tell you. Don’t worry, Captain. Everything will come out all right. It always has, you know. So long as I keep a clear conscience, nothing can really hurt me. I hope I’m too good a soldier to be frightened, just because I’ve been fired upon by an unseen enemy. If I ran away now I’d be a deserter, and a deserter’s a disgrace to an army. So you see there’s only one thing to do; stand by and stick fast to my colors. I’ve got to be a soldier in earnest.”
CHAPTER XV—AN UNWILLING FOLLOWER
Marjorie’s confidential talk with her Captain brought to her a renewal of faith in herself, which carried her along serenely through various small difficulties which continually sprang up in her junior path. One of them was Miss Merton, who seemed always on the watch for an opportunity to belittle the girl she so detested. Still another was the hostile interest Mignon La Salle had again begun to take in her. Hardly a day passed without an angry recital on Jerry’s part of something she had heard against Marjorie, which had originally come from Mignon or Rowena Farnham. Mignon’s ally, Charlotte Horner, was an equal source for provocation. Although she had no special right to do so, she often dropped in on junior basket ball practice merely to find food for adverse criticism of Marjorie. She watched the latter with a hawk-like eye, only to go forth and make capital of any small imperfection in Marjorie’s playing, which she saw or fancied she saw.
The fact that Rowena Farnham was a member of the sophomore team did not add to Marjorie’s happiness. She had no wish to come into such close contact with her, which the approaching games between the two teams would necessitate. From Jerry, the indefatigable news-gatherer, she had learned that Rowena was a skilful, but rather rough player. Knowing her to be utterly without scruple, Marjorie had small reason to believe she could be trusted to play an absolutely fair game against her opponents. Rowena was already becoming an insolent power in the sophomore class. Her extreme audacity, coupled with her good looks and fine clothes, brought her a certain amount of prestige in Sanford High School. She possessed to a marked degree that impudent quality of daring, which is so peculiarly fascinating to school girls.
Although she was not sincerely liked she was admired and feared. She had a fund of clever sayings at her command, which gave her a reputation for brilliancy. The frequent reproof of her teachers rolled off her like water from a duck’s back. She made public sport of whomever she pleased, whenever it pleased her to do so, with a conscienceless air of good humor that rendered her a dangerous foe. She never hesitated to forge her way to whatever she wanted, in a hail-fellow-well-met manner which changed like a flash to insolence with the slightest opposition offered. She was a bully of the first water, but with the glamor of her newness still upon her, the worst side of her nature was yet to be revealed to many.
Marjorie Dean and Jerry Macy, at least, entertained no illusions concerning her. Neither did Mignon La Salle. For once in her life, Mignon was beginning to find herself completely overshadowed by a nature far more hatefully mischievous than her own. True she was Rowena’s most intimate friend. Yet there were times when she inwardly regretted having rushed blindly into such a friendship. Striving ever to rule, now she was invariably overruled. Instead of being leader, she became follower. Rowena criticized, satirized and domineered over her, all in the name of friendship. Had she been anyone else, Mignon would not have borne long with her bullying. She would have speedily put an end to their association. Rowena, however, was one not thus easily to be dropped. In Mignon she glimpsed powers for mischief-making only secondary to her own. She preferred, therefore, to cling to her and was clever enough never to allow Mignon’s flashes of resentment against her high-handedness to mature into open rebellion. Those who knew the French girl for exactly what she was agreed that Mignon had at last met her match. They also agreed that a taste of her own medicine would no doubt do her a great deal of good.
The approach of Thanksgiving also brought with it a stir of excitement for the coming basket ball game, the first to be played in a series of four, which were scheduled to take place at intervals in the school year. The sophomore team had already played the freshman and given them a complete whitewashing. Now they were clamoring to meet the juniors and repeat their victory. The junior team had attended the freshman-sophomore game in a body, thereby realizing to the full the strength of their opponents. Reluctantly, they were forced to admit the brilliancy of Rowena Farnham as a player. She knew the game and she went into it with a dash and vigor that marked her as a powerful adversary. Naturally, it won her an admiration which she determined should grow and deepen with each fresh achievement.
Her doughty deeds on the floor of contest merely imbued the junior team with stronger resolution to win the coming game. They practised with stubborn energy, sedulously striving to overcome whatever they knew to be their weak points. Though manager of all the teams, Ellen Seymour’s heart was secretly with them. This they felt rather than knew. Outwardly, Ellen was impartial. She made them no show of favoritism, but they divined that she would rejoice to see them win. There was no doubt of the smoothness of their team work. Having played basket ball on the freshman and sophomore teams, Marjorie Dean herself knew that the squad of which she was now a member excelled any other of past experience. Fairly confident that it could hold its own, she looked impatiently forward to the hour of action.
To set one’s heart too steadfastly on a particular thing, seems sometimes to court disappointment. On the Thursday before the game an unexpected state of affairs came to pass. It started with a notice on the bulletin board requesting the presence of the junior team in the gymnasium at four o’clock that afternoon. It was signed “Ellen Seymour, Manager.” Naturally, the juniors thought little of it. They were accustomed to such notices. Ellen, no doubt, had some special communication to make that had to do with them. But when five minutes after four saw them gathered in the gymnasium to meet their manager, her sober face warned them that the unusual was afoot.
“Girls, I have something to ask of you which you may not wish to do. I am not going to urge you to do it. You are free to choose your own course. As it especially concerns you, yours is the right to decide. Two girls of the sophomore team are ill. Martha Tyrell has come down with tonsilitis, and Nellie Simmons is threatened with pneumonia. Both are in bed. They can’t possibly play on Saturday. The sophs are awfully cut up about it. They wouldn’t mind using one sub, but two, they say, is one too many. They have asked me to ask you if you are willing to postpone the game until these girls are well again.”
“I don’t see why we should,” objected Captain Muriel Harding. “I don’t believe they’d do the same for us. Of what use are subs, if not to replace absent players?”
“That’s what I think,” put in Daisy Griggs. “It’s too provoking. Everyone is looking forward to the game. If we don’t play we’ll disappoint a whole lot of people. It’s very nervy in the sophs to ask us to do such a thing. Besides, we are crazy to wear our new suits.”
Ellen smiled quizzically. “Remember, you are to do as you please about it,” was all she said, betraying neither pleasure or displeasure at the ready protests.
“I suppose the sophomores will think us awfully mean if we don’t do as they ask,” ventured Rita Talbot.
“Oh, let them think,” declared Susan Atwell impatiently. “It’s the first time I ever heard of such a thing. They must be terribly afraid we’ll beat them.”
“That’s just the point.” At this juncture Marjorie broke into the discussion. “If we insist on playing and win, they might say we won because we had them at a disadvantage. That wouldn’t be much of a victory, would it?”
“That’s so.” Muriel reluctantly admitted the force of Marjorie’s argument. “I know at least one of them who would say just that.”
“Mustn’t be personal,” gently chided Ellen. Nevertheless, there was a twinkle in her blue eyes. The sophomore who had come to her had insinuated what Marjorie had voiced. “I’ll give you ten minutes to talk it over. I promised to let the sophomores know to-night. The girl who came to me is waiting in the senior locker room for your answer.”
“I’m ready to decide now,” asserted Marjorie. “For my part I’m willing to postpone the game.”
“We might as well,” conceded Captain Muriel ruefully. Marjorie’s point had gone home. “If we win we want it to be a sweeping victory.”
One by one the three other interested parties agreed that it seemed best to yield gracefully to the plea.
“Now that you’ve all spoken I’m going to tell you my opinion,” announced Ellen. “I am glad that you are willing to do this. It becomes you as juniors. No one can say that you have been anything but strictly generous. You deserve a crown of victory for being so nice about this.”
Ellen’s conclusion brought a smile to five faces. Her remark might be construed as a declaration of favor toward them.
“I believe you’d love to see us win the whole four games, Ellen Seymour,” was Muriel’s frank comment.
“As your august manager, my lips are sealed,” Ellen retorted laughingly. “Now I must leave you and put an anxious sophomore out of her misery. While you are waiting for the sick to get well you can put in some more practice.” With this injunction she left them.
Once out of the gymnasium, her smile vanished. The anxious sophomore was Rowena Farnham. Ellen cherished small liking for this arrogant, self-centered young person whose request had been more in the nature of a command. Personally, she had not favored putting off the game. Had illness befallen a member or members of any team on which she had formerly played, no such favor would have been asked. Nothing short of incapacitation of the whole squad would have brought forth a stay in activities. Yet as manager she was obliged to be strictly impersonal. True, she might have exercised her authority and herself made the decision. But she had deemed the other way wisest.
On entering the senior locker room she was still more annoyed to find Mignon La Salle with Rowena. If Ellen disliked the latter, she had less love for the tricky French girl. “Birds of a feather,” she mentally styled them as she coldly bowed to Mignon. Her chilly recognition was not returned. Mignon had not forgiven her for the try-out.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” inquired Rowena, satirically pleasant. Her manner toward dignified Ellen verged on insolence.
“The junior team are willing to postpone the game,” informed Ellen briefly. She intended the interview to be a short one.
“They know on which side their bread is buttered,” laughed the other girl. “I suppose they weren’t specially delighted. Did they make much fuss before they gave in?”
“As I have delivered my message, I will say ‘good afternoon,’” Ellen returned stiffly.
“Don’t be in too much of a hurry,” drawled Rowena. “When I ask a question, I expect an answer.”
“Good afternoon.” Ellen wheeled and walked calmly from the locker room. Rowena’s expectations were a matter of indifference to the disgusted manager. She, at least, was not to be bullied.
Mignon La Salle laughed unpleasantly. “You were foolish to waste your breath on her.” She wagged her black head in the direction of the door, which had just closed behind Ellen. “You didn’t impress her that much.” She snapped her fingers significantly.
Smarting under the dignified snubbing Ellen had administered, Rowena hailed Mignon as an escape valve. “You keep your remarks to yourself,” she blustered. “How dare you stand there laughing and snapping your fingers? No wonder people say you’re two-faced and tricky. You’re so deceitful you don’t know your own mind. One minute you come whining to me about this Seymour snip, the next you take sides with her.”
“I wasn’t standing up for her and you know it,” muttered Mignon. As always, Rowena’s brutally expressed opinion of herself had a vastly chastening effect on the designing French girl. Rowena never minced matters. She delivered her remarks straight from the shoulder, indifferent to whether they pleased or displeased. Mignon’s disregard for sincerity and honor suited her admirably. She was equally devoid of these virtues. Mignon made an excellent confederate. Still, she had to be kept in her place. Her very love of subtle intrigue made plain speaking abhorrent to her. On occasions when Rowena mercilessly held before her the mirror of truth, she invariably retired in confusion. At the same time she entertained a wholesome respect for the one who thus dared to do it. This explained to a great extent the strong influence which Rowena exerted over her. She was not happy in this new friendship. More than once she had meditated ending it. Fear of the other’s furious retaliation was a signal preventative. Rowena, as a friend, was greatly to be preferred to Rowena as an enemy.