"'Knock, knock, knock! the girls are knocking——Bring the hammers all this way!'"
"Never mind, Ruthie Fielding," complained Lluella. "We don't all of us have the luck you do. All your English made up for you in that scenario——"
"And who is this made up, I'd be glad to have somebody tell me?" interposed Jennie. "Oh, girls! tell me. Do you all see the same thing I do?"
The crowd were strolling slowly down the Cedar Walk and the individual the plump girl had spied had just come into view, walking toward them. He was a tall, lean man, "as narrow as a happy thought," Jennie muttered, and dressed in a peculiar manner.
Few visitors came to Briarwood save parents or friends of the girls. This man did not even look like a pedler. At least, he carried no sample case, and he was not walking from the direction of Lumberton.
His black suit was very dusty and his yellow shoes proved by the dust they bore, too, that he had walked a long way.
"He wears a rolling collar and a flowing tie," muttered the irrepressible Jennie. "Goodness! it almost makes me seasick to look at them. What can he be? A chaplain in the navy? An actor?"
"Actor is right," thought Ruth, as the man strutted up the walk.
The girls, who were attending Ruth and Ann and Amy Gregg a part of the way to Mrs. Sadoc Smith's, gave the strange man plenty of room on the gravel walk, but when he came near them he stopped and stared. And he stared at Ruth.
"Pardon me, young lady," he said, in a full, sonorous tone. "Are you Miss Fielding?"
The other girls drifted away and left Ruth to face the odd looking person.
"I am Ruth Fielding," Ruth said, much puzzled.
"Ah! you do not know me?" queried the man.
"No, sir."
"My card!" said the man, with a flourish.
Jennie whispered to the others: "Look at him! He draws and presents that card as though it were a sword at his enemy's throat! I hope he won't impale her upon it."
Ruth, much bewildered, and not a little troubled, accepted the card. On it was printed:
AMASA FARRINGTON
Criterion Films
"Goodness!" thought Ruth. "More moving picture people?"
"I had the happiness," stated Mr. Farrington, "of being present when the censors saw the first run of your eminently successful picture, 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl,' Miss Fielding, and through a mutual friend I learned where you were to be found. I may say that from your appearance on the screen I was enabled to recognize you just now."
Ruth said nothing, but waited for him to explain. There really did not seem to be anything she could say.
"I see in that film, Miss Fielding," pursued Mr. Farrington, "the promise of better work—in time, of course, in time. You are young yet. I believe you attend this boarding school?"
"Yes," said Ruth, simply.
"From the maturity of your treatment of the scenario I fancied you might be a teacher here at Briarwood," pursued the man, smirking. "But I find you a young person—extremely young, if I may be allowed the observation, to have written a scenario of the character of 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl.'"
"I wrote it," said Ruth, for she thought the remark was a question. "I had written one before."
"Yes, yes, yes!" exclaimed Mr. Farrington. "So I understand. In fact, I have seen your 'Curiosity.' A very ingeniously thought out reel. And well acted by the Alectrion Company. Rather good acting, indeed, for them."
"I have not seen it myself," Ruth said, not knowing what the man wanted or how she ought to speak to him. "Did you wish to talk to me on any matter of importance?"
"I may say, Yes, very important—to yourself, Miss Fielding," he said, with a wide smile. "This is a most important matter. It affects your entire career as—- I may say—one of our most ingenious young writers for the screen."
Ruth stared at him in amazement. Just because she had written two moving picture scenarios she was quite sure that she was neither famous nor a genius. Mr. Amasa Farrington's enthusiasm was more amazing than his appearance.
"I am sure I do not understand you," Ruth confessed. "Is it something that you would better talk to Mrs. Tellingham about? I will introduce you to her——"
"No, no!" said Mr. Farrington, waving a black-gloved hand with the gesture Hamlet might have used in waving to his father's ghost. "The lady preceptress of your school has naught to do with this matter. It is personal with you."
"But what is it?" queried Ruth, rather exasperated now.
"Be not hasty—be not hasty, I beg," said Amasa Farrington. "I know I may surprise you. I, too, was unknown at one time, and never expected to be anything more than a traveling Indian Bitters pedler. My latent talent was developed and fostered by a kindly soul, and I come to you now, Miss Fielding, in the remembrance of my own youth and inexperience——"
"For mercy's sake!" gasped Ruth, finally. "What do you wish? I am not in need of any Indian Bitters."
"You mistake me—you mistake me," said the man, stiffly. "Amasa Farrington has long since graduated from the ranks of such sordid toilers. See my card."
"I do see your card," the impatient Ruth said, again glancing at the bit of pasteboard. "I see that you represent something called the 'Criterion Films.' What are they?"
"Ah! now you ask a pointed question, young lady," declared Mr. Farrington. "Rather you should ask, 'What will they be?' They will be the most widely advertised films ever released for the entertainment of the public. They will be written by the most famous writers of scenarios. They will be produced by the greatest directors in the business. They will be acted by our foremost Thespians."
"I—I hope you will be successful, Mr. Farrington," said Ruth, faintly, not knowing what else to say.
"We shall be—we must be—I may say that we have got to be!" ejaculated the ex-Indian Bitters pedler. "And I come to you, Miss Fielding, for your co-operation."
"Mine?" gasped Ruth.
"Yes, Miss Fielding. You are a coming writer of scenarios of a high character. We geniuses must help each other—we must keep together and refuse to further the ends of the sordid producers who would bleed us of our best work."
This was rather wild talk, and Ruth did not understand it. She said, frankly:
"Just what do you mean, Mr. Farrington? What do you want me to do?"
"Ah! Practical! I like to see you so," said the man, with a flourish, drawing forth a document of several typewritten pages. "I want you to read and sign this, Miss Fielding. It is a contract with the Criterion Films—a most liberal contract, I might say—in which you bind yourself to turn over to us your scenarios for a term of years, we, meanwhile, agreeing to push your work and make you known to the public."
"Oh, dear me!" gasped Ruth. "I'm not sure I want to be so publicly known."
"Nonsense!" cried the man, in amazement. "Why! in publicity is the breath of life. Without it, we faint—we die—we, worse—we vegetate!"
"I—I guess I don't mind vegetating—a—a little," stammered Ruth, weakly.
At that moment Mary Pease came racing down the walk. She waved a letter in her hand and was calling Ruth's name.
"Oh, Ruthie Fielding!" she called, when she saw Ruth with the man. "Here's a letter Mrs. Tellingham forgot to give you. She says it came enclosed in one from Mr. Hammond to her."
The excited girl stopped by Ruth, handed her the letter, and stared frankly at Mr. Amasa Farrington. That person's face began to redden as Ruth idly opened the unsealed missive.
Again a green slip fell out. Mary darted toward it and picked it up. She read the check loudly—excitedly—almost in a shriek!
"Goodness, gracious me, Ruthie Fielding! Is Mr. Hammond giving you this money—all this money—for your very own?"
But Ruth did not reply. She was scanning the letter from the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation. Mr. Farrington was plainly nervous.
"Come, Miss Fielding, I am waiting for your answer," he said stiffly. "If you join the Criterion Films, your success is assured. You are famous from the start——"
Ruth was just reading a clause in Mr. Hammond's kind and friendly letter:
"Don't let your head be turned by success, little girl. And I don't think it will be. You have succeeded in inventing two very original scenarios. We will hope you can do better work in time. But don't force yourself. Above all have nothing to do with agents of film people who may want you to write something that they may rush into the market for the benefit of the advertising your school play will give you."
"No, Mr. Farrington," said Ruth, kindly. "I do not want to join your forces. I am not even sure that I shall ever be able to write another scenario. Circumstances seemed really to force me to write 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl.' I am glad you think well of it. Good afternoon."
"Can you beat her?" demanded Jennie, a minute later, when the long-legged Mr. Farrington had strutted angrily away. "Ruthie is as calm as a summer lake. She can turn an offer of fame and fortune down with the greatest ease. Let's see that check, you miserable infant," she went on, grabbing the slip of paper out of Mary's hand. "Oh, girls, it's really so!"
Ruth was reading another paragraph in Mr. Hammond's letter. He said:
"The check enclosed is for you, yourself. It has nothing to do with the profits of the films we now release. It is a bribe. I want to see whatever scenarios you may write during the next two years. I want to see them first. That is all. We do not need a contract, but if you keep the check I shall know that I am to have first choice of anything you may write in this line."
The check went into Ruth's bank account.
That very week "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" was to be shown at the local Opera House. Mrs. Tellingham gave a half holiday and engaged enough stages besides Noah's old Ark, to take all the girls to the play. They went to the matineé, and the center of enthusiasm was in the seats in the body of the house reserved for the Briarwood girls.
The house was well filled at this first showing of the picture in Lumberton, and more than the girls themselves were enthusiastic over it. To Ruth's surprise the manager of the house showed "Curiosity" first, and when she saw her name emblazoned under the title of the one-reel film, Ruth Fielding had a distinct shock.
It was a joyful feeling that shook her, however. As never before she realized that she had really accomplished something in the world. She had earned money with her brains! And she had written something really worth while, too.
When the five-reel drama came on, she was as much absorbed in the story as though she had not written it and acted in it. It gave her a strange feeling indeed when she saw herself come on to the screen, and knew just what she was saying in the picture by the movement of her lips—whether she remembered the words spoken when the film was made or not.
Everything went off smoothly. The girls cheered the picture to the echo, and at the end went marching out, shouting:
"S.B.—Ah-h-h!
S.B.—Ah-h-h!
Sound our battle-cry
Near and far!
S.B.—All!
Briarwood Hall!
Sweetbriars, do or die—
This be our battle-cry—
Briarwood Hall!
That's all!"
Mr. Cameron, Helen's father, and Mrs. Murchiston, who had acted as governess for the twins until they were old enough to go to boarding school, were motoring to Briarwood Hall for the graduation exercises. They proposed to pick Tom up at Seven Oaks Military Academy, for he would spend another year at that school, not graduating until the following June.
They also had another guest in the big automobile who took up a deal of the attention of the drygoods merchant and Mrs. Murchiston. A two-days' trip was made of it, the party staying at a hotel for the night. Aunt Alvirah was going farther from the Red Mill and the town of Cheslow than she had ever been in her life before.
First she said she could not possibly do it! What ever would Jabez do without her? And he would not hear to it, anyway. And then—there was "her back and her bones."
"Best place for old folks like me is in the chimbly corner," declared Aunt Alvirah. "Much as I would love to see my pretty graduate with all them other gals, I don't see how I can do it. It's like uprooting a tree that's growed all its life in one spot. I'm deep-rooted at the Red Mill."
But Mr. Cameron knew it was the wish of the old woman's heart to see "her pretty" graduate from Briarwood Hall. It had been Aunt Alvirah's word that had made possible Ruth's first going to school with Helen Cameron. It was she who had urged Mr. Jabez Potter on, term after term, to give the girl the education she so craved.
Indeed, Aunt Alvirah had been the good angel of Ruth's existence at the Red Mill. Nobody in the world had so deep an interest in the young girl as the little old woman who hobbled around the Red Mill kitchen.
Therefore Mr. Cameron was determined that she should go to Briarwood. He fairly shamed Mr. Potter into hiring a woman to come in to do for Ben and himself while Aunt Alvirah was gone.
"You ought to shut up your mill altogether and go yourself, Potter," declared Mr. Cameron. "Think what your girl has done. I'm proud of my daughter. You should be doubly proud of your niece."
"Well, who says I'm not?" snarled Jabez Potter. "But I can't afford to leave my work to run about to such didoes."
"You'll be sorry some day," suggested Mr. Cameron. "But, at any rate, Aunt Alvirah shall go."
And the trip was one of wonder to Aunt Alvirah Boggs. First she was alarmed, for she confessed to a fear of automobiles. But when she felt the huge machine which carried them so swiftly over the roads running so smoothly, Aunt Alvirah became a convert to the new method of locomotion.
At the hotel where they halted for the night, there were more wonders. Aunt Alvirah's knowledge of modern conveniences was from reading only. She had never before been nearer to a telephone than to look up at the wires that were strung from post to post before the Red Mill. Modern plumbing, an elevator, heating by steam, and many other improvements, were like a sealed book to her.
She disliked to be waited upon and whispered to Mrs. Murchiston:
"That air black man a-standin' behind my chair at dinner sort o' makes me narvous. I'm expectin' of him to grab my plate away before I'm done eatin'."
The day set for the graduation exercises at Briarwood Hall was as lovely a June day as was ever seen. The Cameron automobile rolled into the grounds and was parked with several dozen machines, just as the girls were marching into chapel. The fresh young voices chanting "One Wide River to Cross" floated across to the ears of the party from the Red Mill, and Aunt Alvirah began to hum the song in her cracked, sweet treble.
The automobile party followed the smaller girls along the wide walk of the campus. There was the new West Dormitory, quite completed on the outside, and sufficiently so inside for the seniors to occupy rooms. Not the old quartettes and duos of times past; but very beautiful rooms nevertheless, in which they could later entertain their friends who had come to the graduation exercises.
The organist began to play softly on the great organ in the chapel, and played until every girl was seated—the graduating class upon the platform. Then the school orchestra played and Helen—very pretty in white with cherry ribbons—stood forth with her violin and played a solo.
Mrs. Tellingham welcomed the visitors in a short speech. Then there was a little silence before the strains of an old, old song quivered through the big chapel. Helen was playing again, with the soft tones of the organ as a background. And, in a moment Ruth stood up, stepped forward, and began to sing.
The Cheslow party had all heard her before. She was almost always singing about the old Red Mill when she was at home. But into this ballad she seemed to put more feeling than ever before. The tears ran down Aunt Alvirah's withered cheeks. Ruth did not know the dear old woman was present, for it was to be a surprise to her; but she might have been singing just for Aunt Alvirah alone.
"This pays me for coming, Miz' Murchiston, if nothin' else would," whispered Aunt Alvirah. "I can see my pretty often and often, I hope. But I'll never hear her sing again like this."
The exercises went smoothly. A learned man made a helpful speech. Then, while there was more music, a curtain fell between the graduating class and the audience.
When it rose again the girls were grouped about a light throne, trimmed with flowers, on which sat the girl who had proved herself to be the best scholar of them all—the lame girl, Mercy Curtis. She was flushed, she was excited and, if never before, Mercy Curtis looked actually pretty.
Laughing and singing, her mates rolled the throne down to the edge of the platform, and there, still sitting in her pretty, flowing white robes, Mercy gave them the valedictory oration. It was Ruth's idea, filched from the transformation scene in her moving picture scenario.
Afterward the other girls had their turns. Ruth's own paper upon "The Force of Character" and Jennie's funny "History of a Bunch of Briers" received the most applause.
Mrs. Tellingham came last. As was her custom she spoke briefly of the work of the past year and her hopes for the next one; but mainly she lingered upon the story of the rebuilding of the West Dormitory and the loyalty the girls had shown in making the new building a possibility.
There was a debt upon it yet; but the royalties from the picture play were coming in most satisfactorily. The preceptress urged all her guests to do what they could to advertise the film of "The Heart of a Schoolgirl" in their home towns, and especially urged them to see it.
"You will be well repaid. Not alone because it is a true picture of our boarding school life, but because the writer of the scenario has produced a good and helpful story, and Mr. Hammond has put it on the screen with taste and judgment."
These were Mrs. Tellingham's words, and they made Ruth Fielding very proud.
The diplomas were given out after a touching address by the local clergyman. The girls received the parchments with happy hearts. Their faces shone and their eyes were bright.
The graduating class held a sort of reception on the platform; but after a time Helen urged Ruth away from the crowd. "Come on!" she said. "Let's go up into the new-old-room. We'll not have many chances of being in it now."
"That's right. Only to-night," sighed Ruth. "Away to-morrow for the Red Mill. And next week we start for Dixie. I wonder if we shall have a good time, Helen. Do you think we ought to have promised Nettie and her aunt that we would come?"
"Surely! Why, we'll have a dandy time," declared Helen, "just us girls alone."
This belief proved true in the end, as may be learned in the next volume of this series, to be entitled "Ruth Fielding Down in Dixie; Or, Great Days in the Land of Cotton."
"I didn't see your father or Tom or Mrs. Murchiston," Ruth said, as she and Helen walked across the campus.
"They are here, just the same," said Helen, laughing.
"Where?"
"I shouldn't be surprised if we found them up in our old quartette. Ann is with her Uncle Bill Hicks, and Mercy is with her father and mother. We shall have the room to ourselves. We'll get out my new tea set and give them tea. Come on!"
Helen raced up the stairs, opened the door of the big room, and then got behind it so that Ruth, coming hurriedly in, should first see the little, quivering, eager figure which had risen out of the low chair by the window.
"My pretty! my pretty!" gasped Aunt Alvirah. "I seen you graduate, and I heard you sing, and I listened to your fine readin'. But, oh, my pretty, how hungry my arms are for ye!"
She hobbled across the floor to meet Ruth and, for once, forgot her usually intoned complaint: "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" Ruth caught her in her strong young arms. Helen slipped out and joined her family in the hall.
In a little while Tom thundered on the door, and shouted: "Hey! we're dying for that cup of tea Helen promised us, Ruthie Fielding. Aren't you ever going to let us in?"
Ruth's smiling face immediately appeared. Her eyes were still wet and her lips trembled as she said:
"Come in, all of you, do! We are sure to have a nice cup of tea. Aunt Alvirah is making it herself."