The Camp Fire Girls on the Open Road; Or, Glorify Work

“Why so deucedly pensive?” inquired Justice, after we had jogged along for some minutes in silence.

“Just thanking whatever gods there be that I didn’t make a holy show of myself somehow,” I replied lazily. “Isn’t this evening peaceful, though? Who would ever think that down around the other side of this sweet smelling earth men are killing each other like flies, and the night is hideous with the din of warfare?”

Above us the big white stars twinkled serenely, approvingly; all nature seemed in tune with my placid mood. Justice fell under the spell of it, too, and leaned back in silent enjoyment.

What was that sudden glare that shone out against the sky, over to the south? That red, lurid glare that dimmed the glory of the stars and threw buildings and barns into black relief?

“The cotton storehouse!” exclaimed Justice in a horrified voice. “Hurry!”

For once Sandhelo responded to my urging without argument, and we soon arrived on the scene of the blaze. Elijah Butts’ plantation is about three miles from Spencer, and no water but the well and the cistern. “This is going to be a nice mess,” said Justice, jumping out of the car and charging into the throng of gaping negroes who stood around watching the spectacle. The family of Butts had not returned from the pageant yet, having taken Miss Fairlee for a drive in the opposite direction. A few neighbors had gathered, but they stood there, gaping like the negroes and not lifting a hand to save the cotton.

“Here you, get busy!” shouted Justice, taking command like a general. Under his direction a bucket brigade was formed to check the flames as much as possible and keep the surrounding sheds from taking fire. “Go through the barn and bring out the horses and cows, if there are any there,” he called to me.

I obeyed, and brought out one poor trembling bossy, the only livestock I found. Then Justice turned the command of the bucket brigade over to me and started in with one or two helpers to remove the cotton from the end of the storehouse that was not yet ablaze. He worked like a Trojan, his face blackened with smoke until it was hard to tell him from the negroes, the remains of his pageant costume hanging about him in tatters.

“Somebody started this fire on purpose,” he panted as he paused beside me a moment to clear his lungs of smoke. “There’s been oil poured on the cotton!”

Just at that moment the Butts family returned, driving into the yard at a gallop. Mr. Butts’ wrath and excitement knew no bounds and he was hardly able to help effectively; he ran around for all the world like a chicken with its head off. Assistance came swiftly as people began to arrive from far and near, attracted by the blaze, but if it hadn’t been for Justice’s timely taking hold of the situation not a bit of the cotton would have been saved, and the house, barn and sheds would have gone up, too.

Conjectures began to fly thick and fast on all sides as to how the fire had started, and a whisper began going the rounds that soon became an open accusation. One of the negroes that works for Mr. Butts swore he saw Absalom going into the storehouse that afternoon. My heart skipped a beat. He had not been at the celebration. Was this where he had been and what he had done the while? Elijah Butts was stamping up and down in such a fury as I had never seen.

“He couldn’t get out!” he shouted hoarsely to the group that stood around him. “He’s locked in the woodshed, I locked him in there myself, and there isn’t even a window he could get out of!”

I started at his words. So that was where Absalom had been that afternoon. He hadn’t deliberately disappointed me, then. But—Elijah Butts hadn’t said that afternoon that he had locked Absalom up at home. He had pretended to be much mystified over the non-appearance of his son. Why had he done so? The answer came in a flash of intuition. Elijah Butts had probably had a set-to with Absalom over some private affair and had locked him up as punishment, but he didn’t want Miss Fairlee to know that he had kept him out of the patriotic pageant and so he had denied any knowledge of Absalom’s whereabouts. “The old hypocrite!” I said to myself scornfully.

“Your woodshed’s wide open,” said someone from the crowd. “We were in there looking for a bucket. The door was open and there wasn’t nobody in it.”

“He got out!” shouted Elijah Butts in still greater fury. “He got out and set fire to the cotton to spite me! Wait until I catch him! Wait till I get my hands on him!” He stamped up and down, shouting threats against his son, awful to listen to.

“I thought he’d drive that boy to turn against him yet,” said Justice, drawing me away to a quiet spot, and mopping his black forehead with a damp handkerchief. “I can’t say but that it served him right. After all, Absalom is a chip off the old block. That’s his idea of getting even. He didn’t stop to think that it was the government’s loss as well as his father’s. Well, it’s all over but the shouting; we might as well go home.”

We drove home in silence. Justice was tuckered out, I could see that, and I began to worry for fear his strenuous efforts would lay him up. I was still too much excited to feel tired. That would come later. All my energy was concentrated into disappointment over Absalom Butts. I couldn’t believe that he was really as bad as this. I didn’t want to believe he had done it, and yet it seemed all too true. Why had he run away if he hadn’t? I shook my head. It was beyond me.

Silently we drove into the yard and unhitched Sandhelo.

“Good night,” said Justice, starting off in the direction of his cabin.

“Good night,” I replied absently. I did not go right into the house. I was wide awake and knew I could not go to sleep for some time. Instead I sat in the doorway and blinked at the moon, like a touseled-haired owl. It was after midnight and everything was still, even the wind. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Justice wearily plodding along to his sleeping quarters, saw him open the screen door and vanish from sight within. Then, borne clearly on the night air, I heard an exclamation come from his lips, then a frightened cry. I sped down the path like the wind to the little cabin. A lamp flared out in the darkness just as I reached it and by its light I saw Justice bending over something in a corner.

“What’s the matter?” I called through the screen door.

Justice turned around with a start. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Come in here.”

I went in. There, crouched in a corner on the floor, was Absalom Butts, his eyes blinking in the sudden light, his face like a scared rabbit’s. It was he who had cried out, not Justice.

“What’s the trouble, Absalom,” said I, trying to speak in a natural tone of voice, “can’t you find your way home?”

“Dassent go home,” replied Absalom.

“Why not?”

“Pa’ll kill me.”

“What for?”

“Because I ran away.”

“So you’ve run away, have you?” said I. “Why?”

“Because pa licked me and locked me in the woodshed and wouldn’t let me come to the doin’s this afternoon, and I just wouldn’t stand it, so I got out and cut.”

“When did you get out?” I asked, leaning forward a trifle.

“This afternoon,” replied Absalom. “I thought first I’d come to the doin’s anyhow and help you with those things I’d promised, but I was scared to come with pa there, so I went the other way. I walked and walked and walked, till I was tired out and most starved, because I hadn’t brought anything along to eat, and I didn’t know where I was headed for, anyway, and then I came along here and saw this shack and came in and sat down to rest. I must a fell asleep.”

“You didn’t do it, then?” said I, eagerly.

“Do what?” Absalom’s tone was plainly bewildered.

“Set fire to your father’s cotton storehouse.”

“Whee-e-e-e-e!” Absalom’s whistle of astonishment was clearly genuine. “I should say not!”

“Do you know who did?” asked Justice, watching him keenly.

“Did somebody?” asked Absalom innocently.

“I should say they did,” said Justice, puzzled in his turn. “Are you sure you don’t know anything about it?”

Absalom shook his head vigorously. “I don’t know anything about it,” he said straightforwardly.

“I was sure you didn’t do it,” I said triumphantly. “I had a feeling in my bones.”

“How does it happen that you weren’t at the fire?” asked Justice wonderingly. “You must have seen the glare in the sky. People came for miles around. Didn’t you see it?”

Absalom shook his head. “I must a slept through it,” he said simply, and followed it with such a large sigh of regret for what he had missed that Justice and I both had to smile.

“Well, there’s one thing about it,” said Justice, “and that is, if you didn’t set fire to it, you’d better streak it for home about as fast as you can and clear yourself up. Everybody thinks you did it and your running away made it look suspicious. Besides, one of your father’s men says he saw you coming out of the storehouse this afternoon. By the way, what were you doing in there?”

Absalom met his gaze unwaveringly. “Me? Why, I went in there to get my knife, that I’d left in there yesterday. I couldn’t go away without my knife, could I?” He pulled it from his pocket and gazed on it fondly,—an ugly old “toad stabber.”

“See here, you weren’t smoking any cigarettes in there, and dropped a lighted stub, perhaps?” asked Justice.

“No,” replied Absalom, “I wasn’t smokin’ to-day. I do sometimes, though,” he admitted.

“Well, you don’t seem to be the villain, after all,” said Justice, “and I’m mighty glad to hear it. So will a lot of people be. Things looked pretty bad for you this afternoon, Absalom.”

“Honest?” asked Absalom. “Do folks really think I set fire to it? What did pa say?”

Justice laughed. “What he isn’t going to do to you when he catches you won’t be worth doing,” he said.

Absalom began to look apprehensive. “I’m afraid to go back,” he said.

“What are you afraid of, if you didn’t do it?” asked Justice.

“Pa wouldn’t believe me,” said Absalom nervously.

“Oh, I guess he’ll believe you all right,” I said soothingly.

“You go with me,” begged Absalom, eyeing us both beseechingly. “He’ll believe you. He never believes me.”

“Maybe we had better,” said I. “He can stay here with you the rest of the night and we’ll drive over the first thing in the morning.”

The next morning bright and early found us again on the scene of the fire. Early as we were, we found Elijah Butts poking in the ashes of his cotton crop with a wrathful countenance. When he saw us coming he strode to meet us and without a word laid hold of Absalom’s collar. His expression was like that of a fox who has caught his goose after many hours of waiting.

“I’ve got you, you rascal,” he sputtered, shaking Absalom until his teeth chattered. “Where did you find him?” he demanded of Justice.

“In my bunk,” replied Justice, laying a hand on Mr. Butts’ arm and trying to separate him from his son. “He had been there all evening, and knew nothing about the fire. He didn’t do it.”

“Didn’t do it!” shouted Mr. Butts. “Don’t tell me he didn’t do it. Of course he did it! Who else did?”

We weren’t prepared to answer.

“I’m sure Absalom didn’t do it, Mr. Butts,” said Justice earnestly. “I’d stake a whole lot on it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t, you can better believe!” answered Mr. Butts. “He did it, and I’m going to take it out of him.” He began to march Absalom off toward the house, urging him along with a box on the ear that nearly felled him to the ground.

Justice did it so quickly that I never will be able to tell just what it was, but in a minute there stood Elijah Butts rubbing his wrist and wearing the most surprised look I ever saw on the face of a man, and there sat Absalom on the ground half a dozen yards away.

“Beat it back to our shack, Absalom,” called Justice. “I guess the climate’s a little too hot around here for you just yet.”

Absalom needed no second bidding. He sped down the road away from his paternal mansion as if the whole German army was after him.

“When you can treat your son like a human being he’ll come back,” said Justice to Mr. Butts.

“He don’t need to come back,” said Mr. Butts sourly, but with fury carefully toned down. Justice’s use of an uncanny Japanese wrestling trick to wrench Absalom out of his vise-like grasp had created a vast respect in him. He wasn’t quite sure what Justice was going to do next, and eyed him warily for a possible attack in the rear. “He don’t need to come back,” he mumbled stubbornly, “until he either says he did it and takes what’s coming to him, or finds out who did do it.” Growling to himself he went toward the house and we drove off to overtake Absalom.

“Daggers and dirks!” exclaimed Justice. “Old Butts sure is some knotty piece of timber to drive screws into!”

It was a rather dejected trio that Sandhelo, frisking in the morning air, carried back to the house. Justice, I could see, was trying to figure out by calculus the probable result of having jiu-jitsu-ed the president of the school board; I was sorry for Absalom and Absalom was sorry for himself. Once I caught him looking at me pleadingly.

“You don’t think I done it?” he asked anxiously.

“Not for a minute!” I answered heartily, smiling into his eyes.

He looked down, in a shame-faced way, and then he suddenly put his arm around my neck. “I’m sorry I treated you so horrid,” he murmured. Think of it! Absalom, the bully, the one-time bane of my existence, the fly in the ointment, riding down the road with his arm around my neck, and me standing up for him against the world! Don’t things turn out queerly, though? Who would ever have thought it possible, six months ago?

Absalom and I had quite a few long talks in the days that followed. He confided to me his hatred of lessons and his ambition to raise horses. Father let him help him as much as he liked, and promised him a job on the place any time he wanted it. Absalom seemed utterly transformed. He fooled around the horses day and night and showed a knack of handling them that proved beyond a doubt that he had chosen his profession wisely. I did not insist upon his going to school and was glad I hadn’t; for in a day or two came the “visitation” of the Board, bringing Miss Fairlee to see my school.

She was absolutely enchanted with the way we conducted things; gasped with astonishment at the graphophone and the lantern slides; exclaimed in wonder at the library; listened approvingly to the reading lesson, which was from one of the current magazines; partook generously of our dinner, cooked and served in the most approved style, and laughed heartily at the stunts we did afterward by way of entertainment. I took a naughty satisfaction in showing off my changed curriculum for her approval and watching the effect it had on the august Board members. None of them knew exactly what I had been doing all this time, and their amazement was immense. Mr. Butts did not come with the board this time, so I was spared the embarrassment of meeting him. Without him the rest of the Board were like sheep that had gotten separated from the bell-wether; they didn’t know which direction to head into until Miss Fairlee expressed her unqualified approval of my methods; then they all endorsed it emphatically.

“I wish I were a pupil again, so I could have you for a teacher!” said Miss Fairlee when school was out, and I considered that the highest compliment I had ever received. I immediately invited her to attend our Ceremonial Meeting that night and she accepted the invitation eagerly. We held it on the old parade ground in front of the school. In honor of our guest we acted out the pretty Indian legend of Kir-a-wa and the Blackbirds and when we came to the place where we rush out looking for the two crows we found two real ones sitting on the fence, only, instead of attacking us as the ones did in the legend, these two applauded vigorously. They were Justice and Absalom, come with Sandhelo and the cart to take me home, or rather what was left of me after the blackbirds had picked me to pieces.

“Another day gone without mishap!” I said, as Justice slid back the stable door and I walked in with my arm around Sandhelo’s neck. “Sandhelo will have to have a lump of sugar and an extra soft bed to celebrate. Come on, Sandy, let me tuck you in.”

But Sandhelo would not enter his stall. He stuck his head in, sniffed the air, and then, with a squeal that always heralds an outbreak of temperament, he rose on his hind legs and began to dance.

“Whatever has gotten into him?” I began, tugging at his tail, which was the nearest thing I could get my hand onto, when suddenly a wild shriek rose up from under our very feet and in the dimness of the stall we saw something roll over and crouch in a corner.

“Quick, the lantern!” said Justice.

But we couldn’t find it.

Then from the depths of the stall there came a voice, crying in terrified tones, “Don’ take me, mister Debble; don’ take me, mister Debble, I done it, I done it; I set fiah to ’at ole cotton to get even with old Mister Butts fer settin’ de dawgs on me; I done it, I done it; go ’way, Mister Debble, don’ take me, I’ll tell dem; only don’ take me, Mister Debble!”

Justice and Absalom and I stood frozen to the spot, listening to this remarkable outcry. Then Justice raised the lantern, which he just spied on the floor, and lighting it held it in the stall. By its flickering rays we saw a negro crouching in the corner, whose rolling eyes and trembling limbs showed him to be beside himself with fright.

“Glory!” exclaimed Justice. “It’s the same old bird we saw in the road that day, the one I said looked like mischief!”

Here Sandhelo, nosing me aside, looked inquisitively over my shoulder and the darky immediately went into another spasm of fright, covering his face with his hands and imploring “Mister Debble” not to take him this time.

“Whee-e-e-e-!” said Justice, whistling in his astonishment. “He’s the one that fired the cotton and now he thinks Sandhelo is the devil coming after him!”

“Mercy, what an awful creature!” said I, shuddering and looking the other way. “If Sandhelo gets a good look at him I’m afraid he’ll return the compliment about taking him for His Satanic Nibs.”

“There’s only one way you can keep him from getting you,” said Justice to the darky gravely. “That’s by going to Mr. Butts and telling him yourself that you did it. Otherwise, it’s good-bye, Solomon.”

Here Sandhelo, as if he understood what was going on, suddenly snapped at the black legs stretched out across his stall.

“I’ll tell him, I’ll tell him!” shuddered Solomon, and with a prolonged howl of terror he fled from the stable and down the road in the direction of the Butts plantation.

“He’ll tell him all right,” chuckled Justice. “He’ll face a dozen Elijah Buttses, before he lets the devil get him. Poor Sandhelo! Rather rough on him, though, to have his name used as a terror to evil doers!”

Talk about nothing ever happening around here! O you darling Winnebagos, with your ladylike advantages, and your mildly eventful lives, you don’t know what real excitement is!

Worn out, but happily yours,
Katherine.

GLADYS TO KATHERINE

April 10, 19—.
Dearest old K:

The Winnebagos have scored again, although it did take us nearly all year to make this particular basket. I know that if you had been here, you old miracle worker, you would have found the way before the first month had passed, but, not having your gift for seeing right through people’s starched shirtwaists and straight into their hearts, we had to wait for chance to show us the way. And it turned out the way it usually does for the Winnebagos—we stooped to pick up a common little stone and found a pearl of great price. Of course, now there are lots of people who would like to be the setting for that pearl, but she belongs to the Winnebagos by right of discovery and we mean to keep her for our very own. For, after all, who but the Winnebagos could have discovered Sally Prindle, when up to that very week, day, hour and minute she hadn’t even discovered herself? The chances are that she never would have, either, and what a shame it would have been!

You remember my telling about Sally Prindle long ago, the time we tried to fix up her room for her and she wouldn’t let us? Of course she hurt our feelings, because we hadn’t been trying to patronize her and didn’t deserve to be snubbed, but we got over it in a day or two and saw her side of it. It probably was annoying to have three separate delegations take notice of your poverty in one day, and there was no telling how tactless the first two had been. At the second meeting of the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS, held on and around Oh-Pshaw’s bed, we formally decided, with much speechifying by Agony and Oh-Pshaw, that Sally would be the special object of our Give Service Pledge. We would make her feel that we didn’t care a rap whether she was poor or not; that it was she herself we cared about. We would ask her to share all our good times and would drop in to see her often, as good neighbors should, and would finally bring her around to the point where she would begin to Seek Beauty for herself, see that her bare room was too ugly for any good use, and gladly share our overflow with us. Oh, we planned great things that night!

“Let’s go over and call on her right away,” suggested Hinpoha, who was fired with enthusiasm at the plan and couldn’t wait to begin the program of Give Service.

Off we went down the hall, filled with virtuous enthusiasm. Sally was at home because we could see the light shining through the transom.

“Wait a minute, don’t knock,” whispered Agony with a giggle. “I know a lot more Epic way.” She pulled a candy kiss from her pocket, scribbled an absurd note on a piece of paper about weary travelers waiting at the gate, tied it to the kiss and threw it through the transom.

We heard it strike the floor and heard Sally rise from a creaking chair and pick it up. Giggling, we waited for her to come and let us in. In a minute her footsteps came toward the door and with comradely smiles we stepped forward. The door was opened a very small crack, and out flew the kiss, much faster than it had gone in. It just missed Hinpoha’s nose by a hair’s breadth and fell on the floor with a spiteful thud. Then the door slammed emphatically. We looked at each other in consternation.

“Whee-e-e-e-e-!” said Agony in a long-drawn whistle.

“Horrid—old—thing!” said Hinpoha, picking up the kiss from the floor and holding it up for us to see that the note had never been opened. Feeling both foolish and hurt we trailed back home and sadly gave up the idea of Giving Service to Sally Prindle.

“Let her alone, she isn’t worth worrying about,” said Hinpoha, beginning to be just as cross as she had been enthusiastic before. “She hasn’t a spark of sociability in her.”

“There are Hermit Souls——” began Oh-Pshaw, and Agony cut in with

That ended Sally Prindle as far as the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS were concerned. But I had an uncomfortable feeling all the time that if Nyoda had been there she would have managed to become friendly with Sally in some way, and that we had failed to “warm the heart” of this “lonely mortal” who “stood without our open portal.” Sally haunted me. How any girl could live and not be friendly with the people she saw every day was more than I could understand. She just grubbed away at her lessons, paid no attention to what went on around her, snubbed any girl who tried to make advances and lived a life of lofty detachment. She was a good student and invariably recited correctly when called upon, but beyond that none of the teachers could get a particle of warmth out of her, not even fascinating Miss Allison, who has all her classes worshipping at her feet.

Sally worried me for a while; then she moved out of Purgatory and took a room with some private family in town and as I hardly ever saw her any more I forgot her after a time. Life is so very full here, Katherine dear, that you can’t bother much about any one person.

Of course, the big thought that runs through everything this year, all our work and all our play, is the War and what we can do to help. At the beginning of the year Brownell pledged herself to raise five thousand dollars for the Red Cross by various activities; this was outside of the personal subscription fund. A big Christmas bazaar and several benefit performances brought the total close to four thousand, but the last thousand proved to be a sticker. Various committees were called to discuss ways and means of raising the money, but they never could agree on anything for the whole college to do together, and finally abandoned the quest for a bright idea and decided to let everybody raise money in any way they could think of and put it all together to make up the total. The Board of Trustees offered a silver loving cup to the individual, club, sorority, group or clique of any kind that raised the largest amount inside of a month.

The day that was announced there was a hastily called meeting of the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS.

“We’re going to win that loving cup,” declared Hinpoha in a tone of finality. “This is our chance to show what we’re made of. Up until now we’ve been doing little easy ‘Give Services.’ At last we’re up against something big. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party. The WINNEBAGOS have never fallen down on anything yet that they undertook and they’re not going to now. We’re going to win that contest. Won’t Nyoda be proud of us?”

We cheered until the windows rattled and then Migwan brought us to earth with a thud. “How are we going to do it?” she asked soberly. We all fell silent and donned our thinking caps. Minutes passed but nobody sprouted a bright idea. Suggestion after suggestion was made, only to be turned down flat.

“We might give a circus,” suggested Hinpoha rather doubtfully. “Remember the circus we gave at home last year?”

“There have been nine circuses of various kinds already this year,” wet-blanketed Agony. “You couldn’t hire anybody to attend another.”

“Masquerade as seeresses and give select parlor readings of people’s futures,” suggested Oh-Pshaw. “We could charge five dollars for a reading.”

“Been done already,” said Migwan. “Anyway, the faculty have forbidden it. The girls that did it last year scandalized a prominent Trustee’s wife by telling her that her daughter was going to elope with an Italian count before the month was out. The daughter had married a minister the week before, only the girls didn’t know it, and the Trustee’s wife got so excited she sat down on a two-hundred-dollar Satsuma vase and smashed it and tried to sue the seeresses for damages. Then, of course, she found out they were students and the faculty put an end to parlor seeresses.”

That’s the way it went. Not a plan was suggested but what turned out to be old stuff or not practicable.

“Oh, for an idea!” groaned Agony, beating her white brow with the palm of her hand.

“We might go round with a hand organ,” suggested Oh-Pshaw in desperation. “Gladys could be the monkey and pass around a tin cup.”

“Thanks, I wouldn’t think of aspiring to such an honor,” I replied modestly.

“What we want,” said Migwan decidedly, “is a fad—something that will take the college by storm and separate them from their cash. I remember last year some of the seniors started the fad of taking impressions of the palm of your hand on paper smoked with camphor gum and sending them away to have the lines read by some noted palmist, and they made oceans of money at twenty-five cents an impression.”

We talked possible fads until we were green in the face, but nobody got an inspiration and we finally adjourned with our heads in a whirl.

The next day I went into a deserted classroom for a book I had left behind and found Sally Prindle with her head down on one of the desks, crying. By that time I had forgotten how disagreeable she had been to us and hastened over to see what was the matter.

“What’s the trouble, Sally?” I asked, laying my hand on her shoulder.

Sally started up and tried to wipe the tears away hastily. “Nothing,” she answered in a flat voice.

“There is too something,” I said determinedly, and sat down on the desk in front of her.

She looked at me sort of defiantly for a minute and then she broke down altogether. Between sobs she told me that she wasn’t going to be able to come back to college next year because she hadn’t won the big Andrews prize in mathematics she had counted confidently on winning, and she had worked so hard for it that she had neglected her other work, and the first thing she knew she had a condition in Latin. Besides, she was sick and couldn’t do the hard work she had been doing outside to pay her board.

I never saw anyone so broken up over anything. I wouldn’t have expected her to care whether she came back to college or not; I couldn’t see what fun she had ever gotten out of it, but I suppose in her own queer way she must have enjoyed it. I tried to comfort her by telling her that the way would probably be found somehow if she took it up with the right people, but Sally wasn’t the kind of girl that took comfort easily. Life was terribly serious to her. She felt disgraced because she hadn’t won the prize and was sure nobody would want to lend her money to finish her course. I left her at last with my heart aching because of the uneven way things are distributed in this world.

Our room was a mess when I got back. Our floor was entertaining the floor below that night and Hinpoha was in the show. She was standing in the middle of the room draping my dresser scarf around her shoulders for a fichu, while Agony was piling her hair high on her head for her and Oh-Pshaw was pinning on a train made of bath towels.

“Have you a blue velvet band?” Hinpoha demanded thickly, as I entered, through the pins she was holding in her mouth.

“No, I haven’t,” I replied, retiring to a corner to escape the sweeping strokes of the hair brush in Agony’s hand.

“Why haven’t you?” lamented Hinpoha. “I just have to have one.”

“What for?” I asked.

“To put around my neck, of course,” explained Hinpoha impatiently. “It’s absolutely necessary to finish off this costume. Go out and scrape one up somewhere, Gladys, there’s a dear.”

I obediently made the rounds, but nowhere did I find the desired blue band. Not even a ribbon of the right shade was forthcoming.

“Paint one on,” suggested Agony, with an inspiration born of despair. “Then you’ll surely have it the right shade.”

“The paint box is in the bottom dresser drawer,” said Hinpoha, warming to the plan at once. “Hurry up, Agony.”

“Oh, I’ll not have time to do it,” said Agony, moving toward the door. “I’ve got just fifteen minutes left to sew the ruffle back on the bottom of my white dress to wear in chapel to-morrow when we sing for the bishop, and it’s really more important for the country’s cause that I have a white dress to wear to-morrow than that you have a blue band around your neck to-night. My green and purple plaid silk would look chaste and retiring among the spotless white of the choir, now, wouldn’t it?” And swinging her hairbrush she went out. Oh-Pshaw had already disappeared.

“Here, Gladys,” said Hinpoha, holding out the box to me, “mix the turquoise with a little ultramarine.”

“I’m awfully sorry, ’Poha, but I can’t stop,” said I. “I’ve an interview with Miss Allison in five minutes. Get somebody else, dear.”

“Everybody’s rushed to death,” grumbled Hinpoha.

I went off to keep my appointment and Hinpoha took up her watch for a passer-by whom she could bully into painting a blue band on her neck. Being part of the surprise for the guests she couldn’t very well go out and risk being seen; she just had to stay in the room and wait for someone from our floor to come along. For a long while nobody came, and then, when she was about ready to give up, she did hear footsteps coming down the corridor. It was dark by that time and she couldn’t see who it was, but she pounced out like a cat on a mouse and dragged the girl into her room.

“Paint a blue band on my neck, quick!” she commanded, thrusting out the paint box and switching on the light.

Then she saw who it was. It was Sally Prindle. Hinpoha was a little taken aback, but she had about exhausted her patience waiting for someone to come by and help her.

“Will you, please?” she pleaded, holding out the paints enticingly.

“What is it?” asked Sally dully, looking at Hinpoha in that crazy costume as if she thought she was not in her right mind.

Hinpoha explained the urgent and immediate need of a blue band of a certain shade on her neck.

“But I never painted anything before,” objected Sally.

“You’ll never learn any younger,” said Hinpoha, jubilant that Sally hadn’t walked out with her nose in the air. “Here, take the brush, I’ll show you what to mix; see, this and this and this.”

Under Hinpoha’s direction Sally painted the blue band and then regarded her handiwork with critical eyes.

“Thanks, that’s fine,” said Hinpoha, holding out her hand for the paints.

“It needs something more,” said Sally slowly, squinting at Hinpoha’s neck. “Do you mind if I use any more paint?”

“Go as far as you like,” said Hinpoha, surprised into flippancy, “let your conscience be your guide!”

Sally made swift dabs at the little color squares, her face all puckered up in a deep frown of concentration.

“Now, how do you like it?” she asked anxiously, after a few minutes, leading Hinpoha to the mirror.

Hinpoha says she screamed right out when she looked, she was so surprised and delighted. For on the front of the band Sally had painted the most wonderful ornament. It was an enormous ruby, set in a gold frame, the design of which simply took your breath away. How she ever did it with the colors in Hinpoha’s box is beyond us.

“Oh, wonderful!” raved Hinpoha, hugging Sally in her extravagant way. “I can’t wait until the girls see it. Won’t I make a sensation, though! Come to the party, won’t you please, Sally? We’d love to have you.”

Sally shook her head and prepared to depart. “I have to go,” she said with a return to her old brusque manner. “I have another engagement.”

But Hinpoha saw the wistful look that came into her face and she knew that Sally’s “other engagement” was waiting on table in the boarding house where she lived.

Hinpoha’s painted jewelry created a sensation all right. Cries of admiration rose on every side, and the fact that the stony-faced Sally Prindle had done it only added to the sensation. Who would ever have suspected that the most inartistic-looking girl in the whole college had such a talent up her sleeve?

Two days later there was another excited meeting of the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS.

“Our fortune’s made!” shrieked Agony joyfully, dancing around the room and waving a Japanese umbrella over her head.

“Why? How?” we all cried.

“The fad! The fad!” shouted Agony.

“What fad?” I asked. “Do stop capering, Agony, and put down that umbrella before you break the lamp shade. We’ve smashed three already this year.”

“Don’t you see,” continued Agony, breathless, dropping down on the bed and fanning herself with the handle of the umbrella. “Hinpoha’s started a fad with that painted jewelry—blessings on that fool notion of hers of painting a band on her neck, anyway! Half a dozen girls came to classes this morning with bands painted on their necks and ornaments in front that they’d gotten Sally to paint for them. In another day the whole college will be after her to paint ornaments on their necks. Don’t you see what I mean? We’ve got to join forces with Sally, set up in business for the Benefit of the Red Cross—and the cup is ours. Whoop-la! Oh, girls, don’t you see!”

We saw, all right. Inside of two minutes Sally was voted a member of the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS and in a few hours business was in full swing. Sally, of course, was the star of the cast, but the rest of us worked just as hard as press agents. We placarded the whole college with posters announcing that Mme. Sallie Prindle, the distinguished painter of jewelry, would create, for the benefit of the Red Cross, any combination of precious stones desired by the paintee—charges twenty-five cents and up. Students were urged to show their patriotism by appearing in classroom adorned with one of the masterpieces of the above-mentioned Prindle.

It was a success from the word go. The fad spread like wildfire, and Sally spent all her waking hours that were not actually taken up with recitations painting jewelry on fair necks and arms. Lessons were almost forgotten in the fascinating business of admiring designs and comparing effects, and many were the wails because the wonderful things had to be washed off all too soon. We had offered our room as studio because Sally’s was too far away from the center of things, and most of the time it was so crowded with eager customers that we couldn’t get in ourselves. Prices rose as business increased, and the candy box we were using for a bank showed signs of collapsing.

The next week the juniors gave a dance and they all ordered dog collars for the occasion. Everybody else had to stand aside. Prices for these were to be one dollar and up, according to how elaborate they were. How Sally ever got them all on without fainting in her tracks will always be a mystery. She did a lot of them the night before and then the girls wound their necks with gauze bandages to keep them clean. Miss Allison, who dropped in during the performance, folded up on the bed and laughed until she was weak.

“I never saw anything to equal it, never,” she declared. “There’s never been such a fad in the history of the college.” Then she sat up and demanded a dog collar herself.

“Why on earth didn’t you tell us you could paint jewelry, Sally Prindle?” she asked, as she watched those swift fingers doing their wonderful work. “Of all things, wasting your time specializing in mathematical figures, when all the time you had designs like these in your head!”

“I never knew I could do it,” said Sally in a funny, bewildered fashion that set the girls all a-laughing. “I never had a paint brush in my hand before. She,”—pointing to Hinpoha—“put the things into my hands and ordered me to paint, and I painted. It came to me all of a sudden.”

Did we get the loving cup? I should say we did! By the end of the month we had raised five hundred and some odd dollars, more than half of the total, and by far the largest amount raised by any group. We were all wrecks by the time it was over, because we had to take turns waiting on table down at Sally’s boarding house to hold her job for her while she worked up in our room; besides getting the paint off the girls’ necks again. That wasn’t always an easy job because sometimes she had to use things beside water colors to get certain effects.

But it was well worth our while, for the LAST OF THE WINNEBAGOS have achieved undying fame. Migwan started it with her fake Indian legend and the rest of us surely carried it to a grand finish. The best of the whole business, though, was getting Sally.