Sally Cocksure

CHAPTER THE SIXTH

AN ESCAPADE

"My good child, are you trying to play hide-and-seek? And if so, whom with? You will never get to Parchester at this rate." It was Trina Morrison's drawl, and with a gasp of relief, Sally realised that she was the intruder.

"I—I—made sure that you were Matron," she said limply.

"We may both thank our stars that I am not; but on this occasion I will let that insult pass. Tell me—were you really intending to go into town, or only bluffing?"

"I was going, of course—I mean, I am going. You see, I have a ten-shilling note Mother gave me before I left, besides my pocket money. I will buy you some really decent chocolates."

"Nice kid!"

Peter's voice was at its softest, and her hand, laid lightly on the other's shoulder, became a caress.

"I am not going to try and stop you, but—

"It's no use trying to stop me—I told you."

"Well, let me make a suggestion, then—it is this. Why shouldn't I come too?"

Sally clasped her hands tight, and her eyes shone.

"Together, we might astonish the school," she said solemnly. "I have always felt it, and longed to know you."

Trina Morrison laughed. "Quaint kid, would that be a great deed?" she asked. Her twinkle, and the derision in her tone, pricked the bubble of Sally's vanity, making her all at once feel very young and silly.

"Why are you going, then?" she demanded a little sullenly, and again the other laughed.

"Not to astonish the school; that's certain. Why, my dear young ass, don't you realise that if we are expelled we shall not be allowed to contaminate the rest of Seascape House, even as a ten minutes' variety show?"

Sally glowered, as her vision of creating a super-sensation in the hall or class-room faded.

"Anyhow, I'm going..." she began.

"Well, for goodness' sake get a move on, then, and don't argue about the why or wherefore. Isn't it enough to want to do a thing to make it worth while? We had better separate, I think, and meet at the third elm by the corner of the road, opposite Marston's cottage. I shall go by my own private road, and wait five minutes, to see if you've been caught or not..."

Sally nodded. "Right oh!" she said carelessly. "I shall be there."

But beneath her studied lack of enthusiasm was a joy she had not felt since she left home. Once again she had triumphed, and the only girl whom she admired out of this horrible school had chosen her for a friend. Fortified by the idea of this companionship, she left the dormitory boldly, and ran downstairs, concealing herself behind the large hall door just before Miss Cockran swept through it from the front drive.

After this, hours passed, it seemed, though in reality it could only have been a few minutes, while the Head-mistress sorted her letters from amongst the newly-arrived post on the table, and disappeared, reading them as she went.

Sally made a face at her vanishing back, fled across the hall, as she heard Miss Rogers' voice in the garden, entered the dining-room, at this time deserted, dropped out of one of the open windows on to a flower-bed, and took refuge in the shrubbery across the nearest path. To negotiate the grounds after this was simple—merely a doubling backward and forward to shelter her movements with bushes and undergrowth—and then a bold walk out through the gates on to the high road.

Trina Morrison was seated in a dry ditch, leaning against an elm, at the corner of the road, opposite a thatched cottage.

"I was just giving you up," she drawled, looking at her wrist watch. "I made certain Matron had got you this time."

"Not she.... I dodged Old Cocaine too, and Proggins ... you would have laughed."

And Sally launched at once into her favourite subject of her own prowess; but only to break off angrily, as she noticed Peter yawn and pause to pick some ferns.

"Why, you are not listening!"

"I am not amused.... Like Queen Victoria, we never listen when we are not amused—I didn't know you were such a kid."

"I am not a kid—in brains, I mean. Why, I am top of the Remove—easily, too. I shall be in your form next term."

"You might become top of that, and still be a boresome child."

Sally stared at her blankly, and the retort "What rot!" died on her lips. Perhaps Trina Morrison was right. Sally knew that she was nearly bottom of the Lower Fifth, and yet, compared with Cecilia, who was grown up, she was a woman of the world.

"How am I such a kid?" she mumbled at last; and there was real humility in the question.

"You boast like a five-year-old—and do nothing but talk about yourself, when, Heaven knows, the world is full of more interesting subjects. Then you have no self-control, but if any one laughs at you, your temper blows up like a powder magazine."

The directness of this attack, and the cool indifference with which it was delivered, left the younger girl dumbfounded. Cecilia had often levelled the same accusations, but they had never before struck Sally's inner consciousness with any conviction of truth.

"You ... you aren't being fair to me," she muttered; and then relapsed into complete silence, as she realised Trina Morrison did not care in the least if she were fair or not—nor whether her words hurt her listener. Quite unconcerned as to the effect of her speech, she strolled along with her hands in her pockets, until they came to some cross roads, when she took a turning to the right.

Sally caught her arm, and pointed to the sign-post.

"Why, Peter, look, it says straight on to Parchester,"

"Well, I'm not going to Parchester, you see."

"Then where are we going? I don't understand."

"I happen to be going to call on my cousins at Springley Manor. They asked me to tea to-day."

She may have laid a slight emphasis on the "I"; Sally, at any rate, found herself flushing, as though she had been guilty of thrusting her company where it was not wanted.

"I had better leave you, then," she said gruffly. "My way is in the other direction." She turned back, with her shoulders rather humped, and her mouth curved in sulky lines. This friendship was not developing as she had hoped.

The next instant a hand rested on hers, and she heard the soft drawling voice she found so full of attraction.

"Silly kid," it said. "Why, of course, you are coming with me. We will wangle some chocolates out of my cousins, instead of stealing your ten shillings."

After this, the walk was bliss for the younger girl, though she found it hard work to refrain from boasting or talking about herself. One thing she did relate, and that was the story of the goat that she had tied up in the parish schoolroom.

Trina Morrison shouted with laughter: indeed, they were both making so merry over the recital that a car, following them up the side road that had now become a mere country lane, nearly ran them down.

"Why the dickens can't you two girls look where you are going?" shouted an angry male voice, and then broke off abruptly, while the car, which had slowed down, stopped.

"My stars! If it isn't Trina. I understood from the mater that you were laid low, fair cousin—veiled in spots, in fact."

"Not yet; so I decided to look you all up as I got bored with playing at Margate, or Blackpool, on the shore this afternoon. You are just in time to give me a lift, Austin."

"With pleasure."

He opened the door beside him, and then looked hesitatingly at Sally. "Who is the kid?" he whispered. "Where does she come in?"

"Why, behind, of course; that is, if she is not afraid of your driving. Let me introduce Miss Sally Brendan—my cousin, Austin Ferrars, who has nearly killed us. Sally was trudging into Parchester to buy me some chocolates, so I brought her here instead, as I know you always have a supply."

"One of your slaves, eh?" he half-whispered, lifting his eyebrows and smiling; and Sally, who overheard him, found her heart beating fast, as she listened for Trina's answer. Yesterday she would have been furious at the insinuation, but now she waited for an acknowledgement, even, of her existence.

The answer was, as usual, unexpected.

"No—not my slave—merely a friend," Peter said smoothly. Then, "Do get in quick, kid—we shall only have about half-an-hour we can stop, as it is."

It seemed to Sally that the car flew over the ground, and soon they were the centre of a group of people drawn from the neighbouring tennis court by the honk of the motor as it slowed up in front of a low ivy-covered house. On all sides there were exclamations of astonishment, and some mild scoldings from an elderly lady, whom Trina called "Aunt Edith."

"Why, child, I don't understand this. I only got a note this morning saying that you were unable to come."

"That was dictated by Miss Cockran. This is my own answer."

There was a roar of laughter from the younger members of the party at this impudent assurance; but Aunt Edith shook her head.

"I am always glad to see you, Trina, as you know; but I don't always approve of your behaviour," she said, with some severity—on which her niece put her arms round her and kissed her.

"Love me, even if you don't approve of me," she said lightly, and then to Austin—"What about some chocolates?"

She disappeared after him into the house; and Sally, who had dismounted from the car, was left standing forlornly in the drive, until an old gentleman took pity on her and suggested that she might like some tea.

She agreed, and was soon seated near the tennis court, enjoying iced cake and strawberries and cream.

"So you are a pair of runaways?" said the old gentleman at last, fixing his pince-nez, and staring down at the girl beside him.

"Yes—you see it's so dull at school. Peter, that is Trina, you know, had been growing bored stiff this term, and I'm just the same."

"H'm! Trina is a very wild girl, I'm afraid."

There was condemnation in his tone, and Sally answered indignantly, "She is an absolutely wonderful person—you couldn't expect her to behave like ordinary people."

She did not realise that it was almost the first time she had praised anyone else whole-heartedly and without condescension; she only knew her anger was rising steadily as her companion continued with a shrug:

"Oh, she has charm all right, I grant you—but she's selfish, confoundedly selfish—so if you haven't found it out already, be warned, my dear, by one who has known her since she was a baby."

"She isn't selfish—not a scrap. Why, she wouldn't let me go into Parchester this afternoon and buy her chocolates."

The old gentleman smiled at the vehemence of this reply.

"Dear me! Dear me! Wouldn't she let you do that?" he murmured. "It was very thoughtful of her;" then added drily, "but she seems to have got some chocolates—all the same."

As he spoke, Trina Morrison appeared on the tennis lawn with her cousin and some of the other young members of the party. She was munching sweets out of a box and talking excitedly. Sally thought how pretty she was, and admired the ease with which she parried the jokes of the teasing group round her.

"A flying visit, I fear, Uncle Tom," she said, coming up to the old man. "Austin is going to run me back in his car."

"By rights I should go too, and inform Miss Cockran that we have been no party to your misdeeds."

His tone was grim, but his niece merely laughed.

"Dear Uncle Tom," she said lightly, "picture your awful half-hour, while Old Cocaine told you my faults, till you rose in righteous anger at an attack on the family and defended me. Besides, you wouldn't be a spoil-sport."

He turned away with an impatient movement, as Austin broke in eagerly:

"Dad thinks as we do—that it's jolly plucky of you. But, I say, must you go yet?"

"I'm afraid so. Lend me your big coat, do—and I will drive. Good-bye, Uncle Tom—good-bye, Aunt Edith. Next time I'll come for a night, if you will arrange a dance."

Sally thought that the grown-ups near her were not exactly pleased at this casual farewell. Indeed, one lady said discontentedly, "Why, it's too bad!—Austin going off again like that. He promised to make up a set directly he returned from the station."

"He seems to have forgotten that," returned someone else. But by this time Sally was running over the lawn, towards the car, whose engine had begun to throb.

"Aren't you going to take me?" she called; and those standing round laughed—including Trina, who answered calmly:

"Of course, but I had forgotten you for the moment, kid. Here, hop in behind, and have some chocolates."

"She had better put on this coat."

It was Uncle Tom speaking, and as he helped the young girl into its ample folds, he whispered, with a jerk of his hand towards the driving-seat—"Don't trust her too much, child, or she may lead you into Queer Street."

"She landed me here," said Sally coolly; and in spite of the shock caused by this rejoinder, Uncle Tom burst out laughing.

"Bless me! I believe you can look after yourself all right, and I needn't have worried," he said, as he slammed the door; and he turned back into the house without waiting to watch them go.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH

PENALTIES

"What was it Uncle Tom said to you just now?" asked Trina sharply, as they turned a corner of the drive that shut out the house from view; and when Sally told her of his warning and her own rejoinder, she laughed so much that the car swerved, and nearly carried away a gate-post at the end of the drive.

"Poor old Bean!" she said. "Did you hear that, Austin? He must have had the shock of his life."

Her cousin, who was trying to take the steering-wheel from her, did not look altogether amused.

"Cheeky little beast!" he murmured. And then louder, "Here! stop it, Trina, and let me drive. You have forgotten all I taught you last holidays, and are just carrying on like a madman."

"Don't be so fussy and old-maidish. I am quite all right, and anyhow, if we did graze the gate, it wants painting badly enough."

"You idiot! It is my new car that matters—not a silly gate-post. Here, do move——"

"'J'y suis—j'y reste'—Don't play the grandmother—I could drive quite well if you wouldn't keep interfering."

With this, they began a quarrel that lasted pleasantly enough, for they laughed most of the time, until the school wall appeared in the distance. Sally, munching chocolates on her back seat, was quite content to be forgotten, though her heart sank a little when she thought of the dangers that lay ahead. At this minute, when she had gained the friend she wished, expulsion did not seem so glorious as a few hours ago, and she wondered at Trina's unconcern. That was manifest, even when the car at last slowed down in a lane that bordered the school grounds.

"There, stop beneath that tree; it's my usual ladder," said the elder girl. "If you bend your shoulders, Austin, I can clamber up on them, and pull myself easily on to the wall."

She suited her actions to her words, and was soon seated on the top, peering mischievously down through the branches.

"Now lift up the kid," she commanded; and Sally felt herself swung off her feet, then grasped from above, and hoisted, until she rested securely beside her companion—clasping the chocolate box.

When they had wriggled out of their coats, and flung them back into the car, Austin stood up and bowed.

"I envy you your interview with Old Cocaine, my ladies," he said, grinning, "and remember, Trina, if you get the chuck, we can always house you for a bit."

"Thanks awfully—Uncle Tom and Aunt Edith would so love to have me, wouldn't they? But anyhow, there won't be any 'Come into my study' business on this occasion. Sally and I have merely been walking in the grounds, so wrapped in heart-to-heart conversation, that we forgot all about supper—including plum-and-apple jam—wonderful illustration of friendship, isn't it, Sally-kid?"

Sally laughed, a little uncomfortably. The motor disappeared, and they had scrambled down the tree into the grounds, when she ventured to say at last:

"All the same, Peter, you know that sort of tale won't be believed if we are caught—and I suppose we are sure to be—with prefects poking their noses everywhere for somebody to report."

"My child, when you have played truant as often as I have you will know there is a science in getting caught. In this case, as soon as we are out of the garden, I go round to the junior play-room, and enter boldly by the window."

"That's simply walking into the lions' den."

"Yes, silly; but the point is—choose your lion. There will be Poppy Bristow in charge of the kids until they go to bed; she told me so."

"Oh!" said Sally, with sudden understanding. "You mean that, even though she is a prefect, she won't dare to report you?"

Trina laughed—a rather unpleasant laugh, that had a good deal of malice in it.

"Poppy is head of my dormitory, and I see she runs it all right, and gets her sleep—and she leaves me alone in return. Poppy loves her Peter," she added, and then, "Come on, kid; be bold and resolute, and follow me."

They crossed the empty gardens in silence, only halting once to hide their caps in a thick bush.

"Fetch them to-morrow," whispered the elder girl; "and we had better leave the chocolate box as well. Stuff your pockets with those that remain—there will be no other evidence that we have been outside the place."

It was still light; but the blinds were down in the mistresses' quarters, and the girls stole across the grass undiscovered, until they came to the junior play-room. Here, the window was open, and pulling the blind aside, Trina peered within.

"Fat Poppy is there all right," she said, "so now is the hour to strike;" and flinging up the sash, she scrambled over the low sill and into the room, followed by Sally.

"Hullo! my Poppet," she began cheerfully. "Can we lend a hand with the kids?"

The prefect gave a start, and put down the book that she had been reading. Her fat puffy face became anxious, rather morose, and she frowned.

"You were neither of you at supper," she said, with an obvious effort to be dignified and severe. "Where have you been?"

"Talking sweet nothings with Sally, in the garden—so sweet, we even forgot the plum-and-apple jam."

The little girls who had gathered round giggled. They all admired Peter immensely for her daring; besides, she petted them, when she remembered, and gave them smuggled sweets.

Poppy Bristow flushed.

"It sounds unlikely," she said.

"Do you mean that I'm a liar?"

All the carelessness in Trina Morrison's voice had vanished: instead, there was a cold fury that would have deceived Sally herself unless she had known it was a clever piece of acting. At once it placed her accuser in the wrong, and Poppy, backing towards the fire-place, stammered—

"Of c-course not, Peter, I didn't mean that."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean ... mean it's very wr-wrong of you to stay out so late, and ... and all that sort of thing. Edith Seymour was taking supper, and she noticed you weren't there."

"Oh, she did, did she?"

"Yes,—and she said if she c-caught you, she'd report you to Miss C-Cockran."

"And I suppose you said at once, 'You are q-quite right, Edith,' and all that sort of thing?"

Trina mimicked the prefect's stammer and vagueness so cleverly that all the juniors laughed; while Poppy Bristow's naturally red face, that had won her her nickname, flushed even more deeply.

"Be quiet, Peter," she said, with a desperate attempt at dignity and confidence. "You shouldn't talk to a prefect like that."

"All right, old dear; I'm sorry." Trina's tone was suddenly conciliatory. "But I do hate you just imitating a stiff old poker like Edith Seymour. In a public school, prefects should act on their own responsibility; not be always confessing their weakness by reporting to the staff—and you can usually follow a line of your own, too—at least I thought so."

Poppy Bristow smiled, and looked important.

"If you hadn't tried to be funny over things I never said," she returned, "I would have told you that that was very nearly the answer I made to Edith."

"Good for you! Well, what are you going to do? ... put us in gaol, eh?"

Trina slipped her arm into Sally's and laughed. "We will own up that we have sinned, won't we, kid? But it's a temptation to linger out of doors on a summer night."

"Rather!" said Sally. "We are frightfully sorry, of course." But she could not keep a tinge of cheerful impudence out of her voice, and Poppy Bristow scowled at her as she said hesitatingly:

"You had better do some lines, and let me have them by Wednesday—Tennyson's Idylls—let me see—say 700."

"My good Poppy!"

Trina looked extremely injured as she added:

"Why, I have an Algebra paper, and an essay on Cromwell, and..."

"Well, 300 lines, each of you," said the prefect hurriedly, "and if I don't get them by Wednesday, of course I shall have to report you to Miss Cockran."

"Right oh! Your will is law; but I do think you are a hard old flint. Still, it's something to have a prefect that knows her own mind."

If there was a gleam of mockery in Trina Morrison's eyes, her tone did not betray her as she turned away, with Sally following at her heels.

In the passage the two girls ran into Edith Seymour, who called to them to stop when they tried to push by her.

"Where have you been, Peter?" she said sharply; "you were not at supper."

"In the garden, but we have just reported to Poppy Bristow."

"Has she sent you to Miss Cockran?"

"That's her business, isn't it? She was made a prefect the same time as you."

Edith Seymour bit her lip. Like all the elder girls who cared for school discipline, she disliked Trina Morrison.

"I shall speak to Poppy," she said briefly.

Sally clutched her friend's arm when they were left alone. "I say, you were splendid, Peter. But won't Poppy give in to her and report us after all? Edith Seymour has such a much stronger will."

Again Trina uttered her malicious little laugh. "I don't think so, kid. You see Poppy has to sleep in my room, not with Edith Seymour. She hates quarrelling with me; besides, I have put her back up about taking advice, and she is as vain as a peacock, if you stir her up the right way."

"What do you think will happen, then?"

"A row between Poppy and Edith, of course, and meanwhile, we shall escape. I have done this sort of thing before, my child, and it is risks like these that keep school life from becoming unutterably boring."

Sally's eyes gleamed. This was a point of view that, at the moment, won her whole-hearted admiration and assent.

"You are splendid," she repeated; and then, tentatively, "I say, Peter, if you do this sort of thing again, you will let me join in, won't you?"

"Perhaps—I can't say."

"Oh, Peter, do ... please ... I would like most awfully to be your friend, and will never give you away—and you will let me write all the lines for us both, won't you? I can imitate your hand quite easily, if I take time, I really can."

Trina laughed, her musical jolly laugh.

"Well, I don't mind, if it would give you any pleasure. I never refuse a good offer."

"And you will be my friend?"

"Perhaps, if you will only hustle, and grow up a bit—and not talk about yourself. I simply couldn't stand that. Why, it's more boring than school."

Her eyes had a teasing smile, but Sally did not fly into her usual rage.

"I'll try," she said humbly. "It has been a simply scrumptious day, you know."

Trina bent and kissed her carelessly. "And yet we haven't astonished the school—nor bowled the Borley Second Eleven," she said mockingly.

"I had forgotten all about the match," answered the younger girl simply; but as she climbed the stairs to her room she was rather astonished at herself all the same. That morning, the match and its postponement had occupied her entire thoughts.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH

A RIFT IN THE LUTE

It was the Tuesday evening after the adventures of the last chapter; and the Lower Fifth was holding what it called an "Indignation Meeting" under the line of oaks that bordered the cricket field. (It is the way of Lower Fifths to adopt such excitable measures to express their feelings, while Upper Fifth and Sixth stroll by in dignified contempt, and Juniors stand at a distance and wish they were able to join in the discussion, or had thought of holding a "pow-wow" themselves.)

"Only three cases of measles—one of them scarcely a bit spotty, so Matron says—and yet here we all are shut up like lepers for the whole summer."

"Last Saturday's Second Eleven match cancelled, and now next Saturday's First Eleven! You bet there will be no half-term leave, or fête. I can't see it's worth while going to school at all."

"Simply rotten sport! Look here, let us insist that those who have had measles are not lepers, and can go anywhere they ordinarily would have, in any decently managed term."

"Rather! and if not, we will all go on strike."

"Oh, do let's! Strikers always win—my father says so."

"Whom do you intend to strike first? Cocaine? And if so, what with?—A bath sponge?"

It was Peter speaking now, from under the shade of a big hat, and there was contempt mingled with amusement in her lazy voice.

"Oh, Peter darling!—so you have woken up at last. Do tell us what you did on Saturday; something awful, I'm quite sure."

The Lower Fifth, uncertain how to proceed with a strike from any practical standpoint, was quite glad to change the subject.

As Mabel Gosson took her friend by the arm and shook her gently to elicit an answer to her question, another of the Form broke in with:

"There was a fiendish row, I know, between Poppy and Edith Seymour, as soon as the Juniors had gone to bed; and then they had another kick-up at the prefects' meeting yesterday. I heard Poppy was heavily censured: or whatever committees do, when they are sick with anyone. I saw Poppy afterwards, and she was mad with you, Peter ... said it was all your fault, and she wished you would leave."

"Kind of her! I'm sure. It is I who ought to be in tears, 300 lines of 'Morte d'Arthur' for my sins."

"And you have done them already?"

Trina Morrison took off her hat, and flapped it at her questioner.

"My friend, am I not always a slave to duty? Rest assured that they will be done. I think I may safely say that Little Arthur's barge has pushed off from the bulrushes towards Avilion, by now."

"Yes—but it is not you who are pushing the barge, but Sally Brendan."

There was much criticism in Violet Tremson's tone; and criticism of Peter's actions was so rare in the Lower Fifth that Trina raised her eyebrows while the rest stared.

"My good child, why be a purist? Did I lay claim to be the moving spirit?"

"No—but you didn't say, either, that Sally wasn't able to go to cricket yesterday, or to-day, because she is doing your lines, as well as her own. Doris Forbes is mad with her; and thinks she doesn't bother to turn up and practise, because there are no matches. If she loses her place in the Second Eleven, it will be your fault."

Violet Tremson was on her feet now, her usually calm eyes bright with indignation; but Trina merely shrugged her shoulders and settled herself more comfortably against her tree.

"Sally the Martyr," she said pleasantly. "Such a shy gentle soul, that she always needs mothering and persuading to make her do what she wishes."

Everyone laughed, except Violet, who made an impatient movement with her foot.

"I wish you would leave her alone, Peter. You are not playing fair by her—messing up her chances at cricket, etc."

At this point there was a general shout of "Oh, shut up, Violet. What business is it of yours?" And then Sally appeared, very inky and rather breathless.

"Just look, Peter," she said, producing some sheets of closely written foolscap, and pressing them into Trina's hand. "I don't believe anyone but a Scotland Yard detective could see the difference between them and the lines you gave me."

The elder girl sat up, and after examining them carelessly, patted the younger on the back.

"You will have to look out, kid, or if the habit grows on you it will be a case of spending your days in prison for forgery."

"Then you do think them awfully good, don't you?"

Sally couldn't resist angling for further praise. She wished she had not done so, as she met Peter's mocking glance.

"Oh, they are certainly good enough to take in an ass like Poppy; if no one here has an attack of conscience, and gives the show away."

Cries of—"Of course we won't, Peter—Rather not!" arose on all sides.

Sally stood shifting from one leg to the other, her face sullen. No one had taken any notice of her, or looked at her handiwork, except Peter, who had not even thanked her. All her pride rose in arms.

"I think it's a frightfully good copy, myself," she said at last, defiantly.

"I wouldn't go so far as that," retorted Trina calmly; "you have scarcely done the dots over my 'i's' justice, for instance, or the fashionable curve of my 's'. Still, I daresay it's quite a good effort for a youngster." And she yawned.

There was a roar of laughter that made Sally go hot with rage.

"If the lines are not good enough for you, I won't ask you to make use of them," she said furiously.

Trina Morrison's eyes had closed; but now she half-opened them languidly, and her voice, when she spoke, had a cold edge to it.

"Take them back if you want," she said curtly, "and clear out, do." There was silence while Sally stood, her hands clenched, fighting a battle between her pride and newly proffered loyalty. Were pride to conquer, she knew it would be an end of all friendship between herself and Peter; and could she bear this? There was entreaty in the glance with which she looked at last at the elder girl, but the other's eyes were shut again, and she realised there was to be no half-way house of mercy.

"I ... I don't want the lines, Peter. You know I did them for you."

The words were so halting—her voice so humble—that she hardly recognised it. Now, perhaps, Trina would speak a few words of thanks, but she did not; and after a fresh tussle with her pride, that urged her to pick up the foolscap and tear it into little pieces, Sally left it on the grass, and, turning on her heel, walked away across the playing-fields.

"I suppose they are all jeering at me," she told herself miserably. "Now they will despise me as soft, besides hating me." With difficulty she choked back tears, and hurried along, that she might not catch the echo of Fifth Form laughter. Had she known it, the group she had left, instead of laughing at her, was quite silent, until Violet Tremson said:

"You are a prize beast, Peter."

And though Mabel Gosson told her to shut up, and not be a prig, and someone else muttered, "It will do the little ass good to be taken down a peg," no one looked quite comfortable about it.

Trina Morrison might be a joy to the Lower Fifth, but even her admirers did not always understand her.

"Of course she has her nasty side; most people have," they would explain her lapses from their ordinary code; and perhaps part of her fascination lay in the uncertainty of what she would do and say on different occasions.

Now she made no visible effort to combat criticism, or justify herself. As the school-house bell rang, she got up leisurely and gathered the lines from "Morte d'Arthur" together.

"There goes Poppy, so I may as well get rid of these at once," she said, and strolled off after the prefect.

The Lower Fifth could see her slip her arm through Poppy's and hear her friendly laugh, as she handed over the sheets of foolscap.

"And she'll have that fat idiot purring before they have gone the length of the playing-fields," said Mabel Gosson, with an admiring sigh. "Peter is a wonder, you know. Why, anyone else who went on as she does, would have been expelled long ago."

"I wish she was expelled," said Violet Tremson angrily. "She is just pushing the school downhill as hard as she can. You all know she is a rotter, and yet you let her trample on you and take the lead—even some of the Sixth do too, like Poppy."

"You were keen enough on her yourself, when you first came—as much a slave to her as any of us."

"I know I was; and it hurt me frightfully when I found out she wasn't straight, and ... and what a selfish beast she really is. That is why I hate to see the way she is carrying on with a kid like Sally Brendan."

"Oh, do leave off crabbing Peter; after all, she is my friend," said Mabel Gosson crossly. "If you keep on any more, Violet, everyone in the school will say you are jealous because she dropped you, and surely that prickly hedgehog of a child can look after herself. You should have seen her shake Peter the other afternoon on the beach."

"Of course she can. I wonder Peter ever took any notice of her at all, after that."

"It was really frightfully good of someone Peter's age to go on an adventure with a little ass of her sort."

"Rather! and I say, we never heard what Peter did.... She is a sport. We must get it out of her."

By the time the Lower Fifth group had reached the school, all Peter's admirers had recovered the full extent of their admiration. Only Violet Tremson was silent, her usually calm face perplexed by a struggle waging in her mind between two sets of inclinations.

One decision would be, to leave Sally alone to work out her fate. It wasn't even as though she were the type of girl to need a champion, or had shown any wish to be friendly. She was cheeky, conceited, self-sufficient; and wouldn't really mind being expelled, if what she boasted were true.

Violet was well aware of all this, and wondered at her own reluctance to accept the obvious conclusion that Sally's affairs were no business of hers.

"And yet I should hate her to be expelled," she told herself. "She has such lots of brains and pluck. One day, if she stops on here, she will be head of the school and games—ever so much better at running both than Doris Forbes, because she has more imagination."

Violet Tremson was still arguing with herself when she went in to supper. Sally, she could see, had been crying, and now, left in Coventry by her neighbours, made merely a pretence of swallowing her bread and jam. Trina Morrison, on the contrary, surrounded by her friends, was making so much noise that every now and then an exasperated prefect demanded silence from that end of the table.

"She is a beast," said Violet of Peter; and marvelled at the wave of indignation that, for the moment, swept her. Why should she care if a girl who had been persistently rude to her was snubbed and humiliated? It was a difficult question to answer, because the demands of friendship, as of love, are independent of argument and common sense. If Sally craved for Trina's affection, Violet knew in her heart that she would have liked the chance of winning Sally's.

"I suppose one can't help likes and dislikes," she told herself at last, "and if Trina wasn't here, I might make something of her."

CHAPTER THE NINTH

A BROAD HINT

Sally Brendan had spent so much time and care over her imitation of Peter's handwriting that she was a day late in finishing her own lines.

"I couldn't manage to get them done quicker," she muttered sullenly as, giving them in, she was met by an angry glance instead of the curt acknowledgment she felt they at least deserved.

"Why on earth not? Because you didn't choose, you lazy little beast, I suppose? And the writing is hardly legible, as it is."

Sally shifted from one foot to the other, her hands clenched. She hated and despised Poppy Bristow, and it was a great effort to submit to her bullying words in silence. The elder girl, on the other hand, found, for the first time, a little relief for her wounded vanity in being able to abuse someone else in safety. Lashed by the tongues of fellow-prefects, she had not dared to accuse or condemn the real culprit, and had suffered in secret, till now, like a flood released, her indignation poured itself out over the unpopular new girl, who had helped Trina Morrison to humiliate her before the Juniors.

"It's a perfect disgrace, the way the rules are broken nowadays at Seascape House," she concluded her harangue; "and I, at any rate, don't intend that prefects' orders shall be disregarded in future. I said if you didn't get those lines done by Wednesday, I would have to report you to Miss Cockran, and Heaven knows that I have a good mind to do it. It would serve you right."

Sally had borne a great deal, more than she had ever stood from those in authority before; but now her patience gave way, and she laughed aloud mockingly.

"Then I suppose it would serve Peter right as well? ... Miss Cockran will find out about Peter coming in late, if I am sent to her. You can bet your money on that: and I don't know if that will please you—it will make Peter mad all right."

Poppy flushed a deep purple. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "What does it matter to me how mad Trina Morrison may get?"

Sally smiled slightly, as if that answered the question, before she added: "Well, do you want me to go to Miss Cockran?"

The prefect gripped her by the shoulders, and Sally thought she would have shaken her or struck her; but with a great effort she partly preserved her self-control.

"You—you impudent little b-beast," she stammered; "I don't know what you mean—b-but I won't be t-talked to like this. You will do me another 300 lines by the end of the week. 'Ev-v-angeline' ... they are long ones. See?"

"Yes," said Sally sullenly, "all right."

It had suddenly occurred to her that, after all, she herself did not wish to go to Miss Cockran and betray Peter; and that Poppy Bristow, if goaded too far, might send her there without calculating the cost. The only thing was to give in, with as good a grace as possible; but again, as many times since she had come to Seascape House, the new girl wished she had held her tongue, and not been such a fool as to burden herself with more "lines" and a new enemy. She guessed that the wound she had given to Poppy Bristow's pride would not be forgiven easily.

"Not that I care, of course," she muttered, as she pulled down a copy of Longfellow from the library shelf, and carried it to her desk.

The worst of it was, she did care. As she sat scribbling wearily, she could see Trina Morrison walking in the garden below, arm in arm with Mabel Gosson and Cathy Manners. They looked so utterly care-free that, for the moment, Sally was tempted to tip her inkpot over them, out of the open window, as they strolled below.

"It would serve them right, selfish cads," she said; but did not act on the impulse, as she would have done a few months ago at home. She was beginning to learn that her second thoughts were sometimes best.

The lines were finished by tea-time on Saturday, and Poppy received them with a grudging: "Is that 300? It doesn't look more than two."

"Three hundred—yes. It was what you wanted, wasn't it?" asked Sally politely.

The prefect gave a grunt—whether of disgust, or assent, it was difficult to say. It was obvious that she would have liked to return the lines for correction; but the younger girl, foreseeing this, had taken pains to make them both tidy and clear.

"If they are all right, I suppose I can go?" she said at last; and as the other turned her back without answering, made off across the quadrangle after Trina Morrison, whom she saw in the distance.

"I have just had to do 300 more lines, for cheeking Poppy, you know."

There was slight importance in her tone, and Trina Morrison's eyebrows lifted.

"Was it worth it?"

"Hardly, I suppose; but she is such an ass that I couldn't resist pulling her leg."

"My dear child, if you start cheeking every ass in the school you will have your work cut out."

"Oh, well—I shan't do it any more—not till next time."

They had reached the gymnasium by now, and conversation showed signs of languishing. Sally looked hurriedly round to see that they were alone, then caught her friend's arm.

"Peter," she said, "look here. I ... I didn't mean to boast that other evening. It was just, I had taken such a lot of trouble to hit off your handwriting exactly; and it's not an easy job, really, truly, it isn't."

The other laughed.

"Why, kid, of course it isn't. I believe forgers must take a special university course in handwriting, and I was uncommonly grateful—all that sort of thing. It was just, I couldn't resist ragging you—I always rag my friends—but you are such a tinder-box. Mabel Gosson, now, is like an indiarubber ball—in, when you poke, and out again—none the worse."

Sally's eyes glowed. So Peter did number her amongst her friends. Nothing else mattered, at the minute.

"I didn't mind a bit really, from you," she said valiantly. "It was the others standing round and laughing I couldn't bear. It made me mad angry."

"Turkey-Cock-sure. Isn't that what Doris Forbes calls you? It is quite smart of her, considering she is one of the worst asses this house boasts."

Sally secretly liked Doris, and began, rather half-heartedly, to object to this sweeping criticism.

"Why, she is awfully good at cricket, you know."

"And so are you, aren't you? You have often told me so, and sometimes street boys are; and lunatic asylums, I believe, produce quite creditable elevens." The younger girl flushed. "I daresay cricket for girls is all very well, just while one is at school. Personally, I like tennis much better, don't you? It often makes a good excuse for parties."

This was so novel an idea that Sally opened her eyes wide.

"I don't understand you sometimes. Why, tea-parties are awful rot—sitting about in best clothes, I mean."

"Oh, yes, in best school-clothes, of course."

This was equally baffling; but while Trina stood laughing, without attempting to explain her meaning, Mabel Gosson appeared.

"I want to talk to you, Peter," she said, and glared coldly at Sally.

"All right. Come to our Form sitting-room. So long, kid. Don't get any more lines, or you will have a red nose from leaning over the ink-pot."

"But you will let us have a talk again some time soon? I have just heaps to say to you."

"Yes, of course."

There was a hint of impatience in Peter's tone, and Sally dared not keep her longer, but wandered off, rather forlornly, to the cricket ground. They were just picking up sides for the Eagles when she arrived, but though she walked up and down close to the pitch, Doris Forbes took no notice of her; and when the sides were finally chosen, she was forced to go away.

"Try shrimping!" jeered one of those to whom she had once offered unsought advice; and as she turned her back, pretending that she did not hear, she came face to face with Violet Tremson.

"Hullo!" said Violet quickly. "Doing anything now?"

"No."

"Well, you said you would practise me at the nets one evening."

Sally hesitated. Last time they had spoken had been in the sea, and she herself had been violently rude.

"Do you want to play, really?" she mumbled, somewhat suspicious that there was a trap set to catch her, and make a fool of her, though she could not quite detect it at the moment.

"Rather. I seem to be stuck in the Wolves and Bears for life, and batting is quite my worst show. Doris Forbes says my style is simply awful; but then I have no brothers to coach me, you see."

"It was my Uncle Frank who taught me at the beginning. He used to play for Yorkshire."

Sally's face brightened as she spoke, and by the time they reached the nets they were both discussing the averages of their favourite champions. Then they fell to work, and it was with regret that they heard the school bell ring, and went to pick up their coats.

"You will do quite well if you hit out a bit more," said Sally. "I am too rash, and you are too careful. You rather poke at balls, you know."

"Well, if I try to slog, the ball always gets me middle stump and that damps my courage—especially when someone calls out: 'How could you be so careless? Who do you think you are? W. G. Grace, or Plum Warner?'"

The other laughed.

"A short life and a merry one is my motto, and like the old miller, 'I don't care for nobody'—nor what 'nobody says to me.'"

They had reached the school-house by now, and passed Trina Morrison standing in the hall. Sally waved to her, and she stared at them with a faint smile, but did not speak.

"Isn't Peter frightfully clever?" said the younger girl; "and such a sport—not afraid of anyone. I think she's the bravest person I ever met."

"Do you?"

At her dry tone, Sally turned in surprise. It was so unlike Violet Tremson's usual cheerful kindliness.

They were at the foot of the stairs that led to the upper floor, where conversation was forbidden, and both of them stopped involuntarily, facing each other.

"Of course she is brave. Do you mean you don't agree?"

Violet Tremson hesitated: then said very slowly:

"I don't care for Trina Morrison. I used to, you know—as you do. I admired her very much, but ... well, later, I couldn't help seeing that she wasn't what I thought."

"You mean, you think I will change about her?"

"Yes—I hope you will. She is rather a rotter."

It was out now; and Violet accepted silently, though her face flushed, the indignant denial that she had expected. Any explanation of her point of view, or Sally's, was, however, cut short by the appearance of Miss Castle, who demanded why they were waiting about when the dressing bell had rung.

"You will be late for supper unless you hurry. Be off now, the pair of you."

They fled to their rooms; and while Sally changed, she meditated on Violet Tremson's verdict, deciding that she felt as she did because she was naturally "a slow old thing." Probably Peter hadn't bothered to know her, and she was hurt; though it was true that it didn't seem easy to hurt or annoy her. Sally suddenly remembered the scene in the water, and wished she had apologised for her rudeness. She had meant to do so, put it off, and then forgotten it. Now the opportunity was past.

"Anyhow, I'll make up for it by being really decent to her now," she said. "She can't help being a cousin of Mrs. Musgrave, and she has been jolly decent to me."

CHAPTER THE TENTH

THE BREACH WIDENS

It was nearing the end of the summer term, and continued measles at Seascape House had put an end to all hopes of a cricket season that included the outside world. In consequence, "Games" enthusiasm burned with so low a flame that Doris Forbes, for all her patriotic efforts, was quite unable to arouse any interest in matches between English v. Celts, Oxford v. Cambridge, or Lancastrians v. Yorkists. The matches were played—because, after all, something must be done to pass the time on Saturdays—but not even the yawning teams cared who won, or lost.

Sally Brendan cared least of anyone in the school, for Doris Forbes had continued to ignore her existence where the Eagles were concerned, and had not Violet Tremson drawn her into the struggle of Wolves and Bears, she might have been reduced once more to shrimping.

"I had rather do anything than play with those horrible little beasts again," she said to Peter one Saturday afternoon, as they lay on a rug under the oak trees; and her companion smiled lazily.

"Rather be expelled?"

"Much. I wouldn't mind being expelled from this place, as I said before. Would you?"

"I may be reduced to it for a new experience. This leper sort of isolation is getting on my nerves."

"Well, you are luckier than I am, for you can play tennis almost any evening—and you quite like that."

It was, indeed, the one game that Trina Morrison treated with any kind of toleration; and when she chose to exert herself, she had a good eye and a steady wrist that made her quite an average player. Thanks to her friends amongst the seniors, who controlled the use of the courts, she could count on a set almost any evening; and what made Sally marvel was the little joy or interest she took in such opportunities.

This afternoon, for instance, just because she knew Miss Rogers had gone away for a week-end, and could not therefore force them to take some exercise, she had refused to join in an American tournament, preferring to recline instead under the trees with a novel.

Sally was surprised but pleased, because it meant that she could go and sit with her, while she waited for her innings as a Wolf, in a not very exciting tussle with the languid Bears.

Violet Tremson, also a Wolf, was batting at the moment, playing steadily and carefully, but with more "dash" than earlier in the season, and the younger girl watched her with approval.

"She's a lot better since I took her in hand, isn't she?" Sally said at last.

"Who?"

"Why, Violet Tremson. We have been practising at the net, and now she stands up to my bowling quite well. Some day she will be in one of the elevens."

Peter yawned. She was reading a letter that lay between the pages of her book, and did not look up.

Sally pulled her suddenly by the arm.

"Peter, do leave that letter for a minute, and pay attention—I want to know something. What do you really think of Violet Tremson?"

"I never think of her at all."

"Yes, but if you did? I want to know badly, please."

"Well, then, I would probably think her a good little girl—almost too good to be true."

At the obvious sneer the younger girl's look of curiosity deepened.

"That means you dislike her; and she doesn't like you either—and yet I like you both. Isn't that odd?"

"Well, which do you care for most?"

The tone was lazy, but there was a gleam of interest in the half-closed eyes. Trina was not quite as indifferent to admiration as she often seemed.

"Oh, Peter. Can you ask? You, of course. You were my first friend here. Violet is a good sort, but when I'm with her I feel as if I was drinking just ordinary water, while you are like something that's exciting, and fizzes—ginger ale, perhaps."

"Say champagne—it's not so cheap."

"But I don't like champagne. Uncle Frank used to give it to me when I lived with him, and it's all dry—and burns."

"You don't know but that I may turn out like that. I'm not at all a good friend for you, kid."

"Rot!"

Sally looked so indignant that the other laughed.

"Well, your dear Violet told me so—in fact she asked me to leave you alone."

"What?"

"Oh, I endured quite a sermon on the subject of corrupting the young, I assure you. She told me I wasn't being fair to a child like you, and seemed to think I was dragging you into mischief."

"You didn't drag me. Why, it was I who suggested going to Parchester that afternoon—and anyhow, it is none of her business."

"She seemed to think so. I suppose the poor thing has the missionary spirit, and can't help herself. She sees you going to the dogs, for instance, and must start off with a chain to drag you back."

Again there was the sneer, but this time Sally was too angry to notice it. Her cheeks were hot with humiliation at the idea of being "taken up" for her good by Violet, and "saved."

"I call it the most frightful cheek I ever heard," she said at last.

"On the contrary, it is painstaking and unselfish with such a thornbush as you are. In time, she may turn you into a respectable member of the school, with high ideals of duty—like Doris Forbes."

"I don't want to be respectable, or done good to." Sally's eyes were flashing now. She sprang to her feet, and dug viciously at the ground with her bat, to relieve her feelings.

"You ought to have told me before," she said. "When you saw us beginning to make pals. You know I wouldn't stand her jawing at you about me, as if she were my godmother—or someone odious and interfering like that.... I ... just won't stand it. It's beastly cheek."

"It may have been cheek, my child, but she was probably right. I don't know that I mean to stay here much longer."

"Peter, tell me, are you planning anything risky?"

Sally had seen her glance again at her letter, as she spoke, and had a sudden intuition that some new adventure was on foot.

Trina Morrison smiled.

"Almost as clever as Sherlock Holmes, and too clever for Seascape House. Well, what if I am?"

"I want to come too ... I must."

"I daresay; but I shan't take you, all the same. Violet may be a sanctimonious prig, but she's right about you and me. You are too young for more adventures at present."

The elder girl lay back and watched the other with teasing eyes as she spoke—only shaking her head at the furious protestations her announcement aroused.

In the midst of them Violet Tremson appeared, tranquil as usual.

"I made twenty-three," she said, "and then fell to a catch—a neat little donkey-drop sort, of beast—straight into Hilda Collet's hands. I came to say you are next in, after Maisie."

Sally said nothing; then, as the other waited, answered gruffly, turning her back: "All right—but I'm talking to Peter now."

Violet flushed, and her eyes as they met Trina Morrison's showed a little flame of anger.

"Don't go," said Trina sweetly. "We were just discussing you. I was just telling Sally that I thought you had gone out of your way to take a lot of trouble about her, and that she wasn't nearly grateful enough."

"What do you mean, Trina?"

"She means," broke in Sally furiously, "that you have been trying to patronise me, and do me good. I suppose that old toad, Mrs. Musgrave, put it on your conscience before I came."

"She didn't, Sally. Don't be an ass."

"Well, anyway, you tried to break off my friendship with Peter, and that was none of your business."

Violet Tremson pushed the younger girl aside, and stood looking down at the elder with contempt and indignation in her eyes.

"So you have been telling her what I said, have you?"

"Certainly. Since you preached to me before the whole Lower Fifth, I imagine it wasn't meant to be private."

"How dared you talk about me before all those cads?" Sally was trembling with rage; and Violet, it was evident, was having some trouble to keep down her own temper.

"Be quiet, Sally," she said; "you don't understand."

"But I do—and I don't want ever to be patronised by you again, thank you—I'll choose my own friends."

Trina Morrison, who had risen lazily to her feet, laughed.

"Turkey-Cock-sure, aren't you? You may be proud of her friendship some day," she said mockingly. "One never knows. Anyhow, stop gobbling, do, and go and bat. Maisie has just been bowled, and the whole field seems yelling for you."

"I don't care—they can burst if they like. I want Violet to understand what I feel."

"I think she does. You look wrathful enough to register displeasure and scorn in a cinema film. Anyhow, do go and bat, and I'll settle your final account with our mutual friend here."

Sally looked from one to the other, and with a great effort moved away towards the pitch.

"Don't imagine I want ever to make it up again," she called over her shoulder, and again Trina Morrison laughed; but her eyes were no longer amused, only shallow and hard.

"Well?" she asked, briefly.

Violet's hands were clenching and unclenching round the handle of her bat.

"I'm not clever enough to answer you," she said at last, in a low voice; "but you know what I think of you, and what a dirty game you have just played—poisoning Sally's mind. One day you will be expelled, and——"